J  U  M  1  \ 


sM, 

^^^ 


i^ 


MOMTH  Of 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


'^^-^'^^ 


Through  the  Year  with  the  Poets 

EDITED    BY 

OSCAR    FAY    ADAMS. 


Now  Ready. 


WINTER, 


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JANUARY. 

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Separate  Volumes,  75  cents  each. 

D.    LOTHROP    AND    COMPANY,    PUBLISHERS, 
BOSTON. 


JUNE 


EDITED  BY 

OSCAR   FAY   ADAMS 


June  is  full  of  invitations  sweet, 
Forth  from  the  chimney's  yawn  and  thrice-read  tomes 
To  leisurely  delights  and  sauntering  thoughts 
That  brook  no  ceiling  narrower  than  the  blue. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 
Under  the  Willows. 


THE  LIBRAKT 

UNIVERSITY  OF  '    '.TJFORNU 
LOS  AJVJtKLES 

BOSTON 
D.    LOTHROP    AND    COMPANY 

FRANKLIN   AND   HAWLEY   STREETS 


Copyright,  i8S6,  by 
D.  LOTHROP  AND  COMPANY. 


BOSTON  : 

COMPOSITION    AND   ELECTROTYPING    BY 

C.    F.    MATTOON    AND  COMPANY. 


PN 


(ellO 
PREFACE. 


The  affection  for  the  month  of  June,  now  so  com- 
mon in  England  and  America,  is  a  sentiment  of  very 
modern  growth,  so  far  as  poetry  is  concerned.  With 
the  English  poets  May,  which  corresponds  very  nearly 
to  the  June  of  the  northern  part  of  the  United  States, 
has  always  taken  precedence ;  and,  until  Leigh  Hunt 
called  attention  to  the  neglect  of  June  as  a  subject  for 
verse,  the  references  to  the  month  in  English  poetry 
were  fragmentary  and  few.  In  America  the  poets  of 
the  colonial  period  were  too  busy  with  moral  and  the- 
ological themes  to  devote  many  of  their  stiffly-flowing 
measures  to  the  praise  of  June  or  of  any  other  month ; 
but  within  the  last  forty  years  the  love  for  the  first  of 
the  summer  months,  which  existed,  no  doubt,  before, 
has  found  amplest  utterance  in  American  verse,  and 
the  English  echoes  of  this  late-found  voice  of  praise 
have  also  been  many.  With  what  degree  of  complete- 
ness this  volume  gives  these  utterances  is  left  for  the 
judgment  of  the  reader  to  determine. 

Mr.  Horatio   Nelson    Powers,   whose   name   has   be- 
fore appeared  in  this  series,  is   here   represented  by  a 


204155^ 


IV  PREFACE. 

very  noteworthy  original  poem  entitled  "  The  Tulip  Tree 
in  Blossom,"  and  Mr.  Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick, 
one  of  the  versatile  editors  of  Puck,  has  kindly  con- 
tributed "A  June  Lily."  A  "June  Love  Song,"  by 
Miss  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates,  readers  will  now  hear  for 
the  first  time;  and  the  tuneful  "June  Harmony,"  by 
Mr.  Clinton  Scollard,  has  also  been  written  for  the 
volume.  The  other  original  contributions  are  "June," 
by  Mr.  Ernest  Warburton  Shurtleff;  "A  June  Even- 
ing," by  Miss  Florence  Scollard  Brown ;  "  Moonrise  in 
June,"  by  Mr.  Charles  Miner  Thompson ;  "  Ballade  of 
a  Windy  Day,"  by  Mr.  Alanson  Bigelow  Houghton; 
"  The  Dance  of  Death,"  by  Mrs.  Jane  Goodwin  Austin ; 
and  "  O  June,  Sweet  June,"  by  Mr.  George  Parsons 
Lathrop,  —  six  poems  which  cannot  fail  to  be  duly 
appreciated. 

As  before,  the  thanks  of  the  publishers  are  due 
to  Messrs.  Houghton,  MifBin  &  Co. ;  Cupples,  Up- 
ham  &  Co. ;  Roberts  Brothers ;  Ticknor  &  Co. ;  Lee  & 
Shepard ;  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons ;  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  ; 
and  the  Century  Company,  for  their  uniform  courtesy 
in  relation  to  the  use  of  poems  controlled  by  copyright. 

Cambridge,  Mass.,  May  12,  1886. 


CONTENTS. 


Pack 

June yames  Russell  Lowell      ,  i 

Summer Frank  D.  Sherman     .     .  z 

The  Birds  in  Early  June,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .  3 

June Henry  W.  Longfellow      .  3 

Delay Edith  Matilda  Thomas   .  4 

Summer  Comes James  Thotnson      ...  4 

The    Departure    of    the 

Cuckoo Matthew  Arnold     ...  5 

Ope,  Folded  Rose      .    .     .  William  Cox  Bennett .    .  6 

Summer Alfred  Norris    ....  6 

Joy  Month David  Atwood  Wasson    .  8 

To  June Leigh  Hunt 9 

Here Richard K.  Munkittrick .  ii 

*The  Tulip  Tree  in  Blos- 
som        Horatio  Nelson  Powers    .  12 

Haytime Matthew  Arnold     ...  13 

In  June John  White  Chadwick     .  14 

What  Garden  but  Glows,  Walter  Savage  Landor    .  14 
The    Grafter's     Task     is 

Ended Theophile  Alarzials     .     .  15 

June Edmund  Spenser    ...  15 

On  the  Edge  of  the  Marsh,  Antoinette  Alcott  Bassctt,  16 
*  Written  for  this  volume. 


VI 


COiVTF.XTS. 


Summer 

Signs  of  Rain 

To  Blossoms 

June 

Summer  Rain     ..... 

Boating 

Clover 

On  the  Bridge 

The  Earliest  Breath  of 

June 

June  Days 

June 

Summer  

*A  June  Harmony     .    .    . 

*JUNE 

Rose  Song 

A  Day  in  June 

A  Song  of  Summer  .  .  . 
Love  in  Summertime  .  . 
In  the  Summertime  .    .    . 

The  Bobolink 

June 

In  June  

A   Dream    of   the   South 

Winds  in  June.    .    .    . 

June 

Now  IS  THE  High  Tide  of 

THE  Year  

Morning  Glories  .... 

•  Written  for 


Richard  H.  Stoddar 
Edward  ycnner . 
Robert  Hcrrick   . 
Mrs.  Akcrs  Allen 
Sydney  Dobell    . 
Augustus  Mendon  Lord 
Edgar  Fawcett   .     .     . 
Arthur  Reed  Ropes 

Mrs.  Akers  Allen  .  . 
Robert  Burns  Wilson . 
Mrs.  Mary  E.  Blake  . 
Edmund  Spenser  .  . 
Clinton  Scollard  .  . 
Ernest  W.  Shurtleff  . 
Mrs.  Emily  Pfciffcr  . 
Mrs.  C.  C.  Liddell .  . 
Mrs.  Alice  M.  Rollins 
Thomas  Lodge  .  .  . 
yohn  Dennis  .... 
yames  Russell  Lowell 
William  Cullen  Bryant 
Nora  Perry   .... 


Paid  Hamilton  Hayne     . 
Mrs.  Caroline  A.  Mason, 

yajnes  Russell  Lowell 
Mrs.  Louisa  P.  Hopkins , 
this  volume. 


Pagc 

i6 
17 
19 

20 
21 
22 
24 
26 

26 

27 
29 

30 
31 
32 
33 
33 
34 
35 
36 
37 
38 
39 

41 

43 

43 
44 


CONTENTS.  Vll 


ViLLANELLE Mrs.  Emily  Pfciffer    . 

Summer ^0/171  Clare    .... 

The  Dying  Sycamores  .    .  Mrs.  Anne  C.  Botta    . 

June  Longings George  Parsons  Lathrop 

The  Dandelions    ....  Helen  Gray  Cone    .    . 

Bumble-Bee Henry  Atigustin  Beers 

June Mrs.  Mary  E.  Hobbs  . 

Song  of  the  Gloaming  .     .  John  Vance  Cheney    . 

A  Summer  Moon    ....  Edward  Dowden    .     . 

*A  June  Evening  ....  Florence  S.  Brown 

The  Sweet  June  Night    .  Lewis  Morris     .    .    . 

A  Summer  Twilight      .     .  C/ias.  Tcnnyson-Ttimer 

ANightinJune.     .     .     .  William  Morris      .     . 

In  the  Clover Mrs.  Hattie  Griswold . 

Vine  Life Mrs.  Akers  Allen    .     . 

Wooing Eben  Eugene  Rexford 

Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  Cannot 

Lose Edna  Deatt  Proctor    . 

A  Summer  Day  by  the  Sea,  Henry  W.  Longfellow 

Morning  Glory     ....  Mrs.  Chandler  Moulton 

June Henry  Gay  Hewlett     . 

Summer's  Return  ....  Philip  Boiirke  Marston 

A  Picture Mrs.  Sarah  Bolton     . 

A  Four  O'clock     ....  Mrs.  Harriet  Spofford 

June Susan  Louisa  Higginson. 

Solstice Edith  Matilda  Thomas 

Summer  Solstice  ....  Mrs.  Emily  Charles   . 

The  Longest  Day.    .    .    .  William  Wordsworth 

Swinging May  Probytt  .... 

*  Written  for  this  volume. 


Pack 

45 
46 

47 
48 

49 
50 
51 

52 
53 
54 
55 
56 
56 
57 
58 
60 


vm  C0ATl-:X7'S. 

Pacb 

In  June James  Berry  Bcnscl  .     .       73 

•A   Uallade  of  a  Windy 

Day Alanson  B.  Houghton 

June    ...  Edgar  Fawcett   .     .     . 

•The  Dance  of  Death  .    .  Mrs.  Jane  G.  Austin  . 

•June  Love  Song  ....  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates  . 

Summer's  Rain   and  Win- 
ter's Snow Richard  Watson  Gilder 

Full  Summer  Now    .     .    .  Oscar  Wilde  .... 

A  June  Day Philip  Bourke  Mars  ton 

The  Bumhle-Bee     ....  Charles  Henry  Noyes  . 

A  June  Day John  Todhnnter     .     . 

June Percy  By s she  Shelley  . 

A  Quest Mrs.  Mary  F.  Butts   . 

In  June Eben  Eugene  Rexford 

A  June  Garden  Carol  .    .  Clinton  Scollard     .    . 

Fireflies George  Arnold   .     .     . 

A  Ballade  of  Summer.     .  J.S.H.  Untsted     .    . 

Oh    the    Merry    Lay    of 

June Mrs.  Augusta  D.  Webster, 

June's  Husbandry      .     .    .  Thomas  Tusser .    .    . 

June Minna  Caroline  Smith 

Evening  Primroses    .    .    .  Helen  Gray  Cone    .    . 

A  June  Day Dora  Read  Goodale 

A  June  Night Emma  Lazarus  .    .    . 

The  Long  Days      ....  William  Dean  Howells 

When  Clover  Blooms  .     .  James  Benjatnin  Kenyan, 

To  a  June  Rose     ....  Henry  Austin  Dobson 

What  is  so  Rare  ....  James  Russell  Lowell 
*  Written  for  this  volume. 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


In  a  June  Garden     .    .    . 

In  June 

A  Night  in  June 

June 

Whippoorwill 

*0  June,  Sweet  June    .     . 

She  was  Won  in  an  Idle 
Day 

The  Thrush's  Nest  .    .    . 

On  the  Wild  Rose  Tree. 

Amid  the  Limes     .... 

The  Drought  in  June  .    . 

A  Sudden  Shower     .    .    . 

Across  the  Crimson  Clo- 
ver Seas 

The  Evening  Comes  .    .    . 

June 

Summer  Night  on  the 
Hudson 

The  Heart  of  June  .    .    . 

A  Summer  Idyl     .... 

Another  Way  of  Love     . 

June  Days 

A  Summer's  Day    .... 

Summer  

The  Danube  River  .    .    . 

The  First  Cricket    .    .    . 

The  June  Cricket    .    .    . 

The  Wood  Thrush   .    .    . 

*  Written  for 


Alfred  Austin  .  .  . 
Aljred  Billings  Street 
Alfred  Austin  .  .  . 
William  Morris  .  . 
Obadiah  C.  Auringer  . 
George  Parsons  Lathrop 


Mrs.  Chandler  Moulton 
fohn  Clare     .     . 
Richard  Watson  Glide 
Mortimer  Collins    . 
y.  Hazard  Hartzell* 
James  Berry  Bens  el 

Clinton  Scollard 
Matthew  Arnold     . 
Edwin  Arnold   .     . 


Joseph  Rodman  Drake 
Constance  E  Woolson 
William  Sharp  .     .     . 
Robert  Browning    .     . 
Charles  Lotin  Hildreth 
Mrs.  Abba  Woolson    . 
John  Addington  Symonds 
Hamilton  Aide   .     .     . 
Mrs.  Rosaline  Jones   . 
Joel  Benton    .... 
Charles  Lotin  Hildreth 
this  volume. 


X  CONTENTS. 

Pacb 

To  Carnations Robert  Herrick  .    .    .    .  uo 

June riiilip  Bourkc  Marston  .  121 

Raiskd  are  the  Dripping 

Oars Mntt/u-w  Arnold     ...  121 

*A  June  Lily Richard  K.  Mimkittrkk  .  122 

In  June James  Russell  Lowell      .  122 

Come    to     me    in   Cherry 

Time George  Perkins  A/orris    .  123 

Long     Listless     Summer 

Hours Oscar  Wilde 123 

♦Moonrise  IN  June    .     .     .  Charles  Miner  Thotnpon,  124 

A  Yellow  Pansy  ....  Helen  Gray  Cone    .    .    .  124 

In  Joyous  June Percy  Bysshe  Shelley .    .  125 

Noontide Samuel  Minium  Peck     .  126 

Rose  Secrets Frank  D.  Sherman     .     .  127 

A  HuMMiNG-BiRD    ....  Edgar  Fawcett   ....  127 

To  June Mrs.  Mary  E.  Blake  .     .  128 

Summer  Twilights    .     .    .  Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  129 

Puck Samuel  Mintum  Peck     .  130 

To  AN  Oriole Edgar  Fawcett    ....  130 

Ballad Mrs.  Harriet  Spofford     .  131 

June  Drew  unto  its  End,  William  Morris      .    .    .  132 

The  Death  of  June  .    .    .  Lucy  Larcom     ....  132 

*  Written  for  this  volume. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


,  Pagb 

Aide,  Hamilton. 

Born  in  England,  i8 — . 

The  Danube  River 117 

Allen,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Ann  [Chase]  [Akers]. 

Born  in  Strong,  Maine,  October  9,  1832. 

June 20 

The  Earliest  Breath  of  June  ....  .26 
Vine  Life •      58 

Arnold,  Edwin. 

Born  in  Rochester,  England,  June  10,  1832. 

June 108 

Arnold,  George. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  June  24,  1S34. 

Died  in  Strawberry  Farms,  New  Jersey,  November  9,  1865. 

Fireflies 85 

Arnold,  Matthew. 

Born  in  Laleham,  England,  December  24,  1822. 

Haytime 13 

Raised  are  the  Dripping  Oars  .  .  .  .121 
The  Departure  of  the  Cuckoo  ....  5 
The  Evening  Comes 107 


XI 1  INDEX  01'  AUTHORS. 

Pagb 

AURINGER,   ORADIAH   CORNELIUS. 

Corn  in  Glens  Falls,  New  York,  June  4,  1849. 

Whippoorwill 100 

Austin,  Alfred. 

Bom  in  Hcailingly,  near  Leeds,  England,  May  30,  1S35. 

A  Night  in  June 98 

In  a  June  Garden 97 

Austin,  Mrs.  Jane  [Goodwin] 

Bom  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  February  25,  1S31. 

The  Dance  of  Death 76 

Bassett,  Antoinette  Alcott. 
Born  in  Berea,  Ohio,  May  23,  1857. 

On  the  Edge  of  the  Marsh 16 

Bates,  Charlotte  Fiske. 

Bom  in  New  York  City,  November  30,  1838. 

June  Love  Song 77 

Beers,  Henry  Augustin. 

Bom  in  Buffalo,  New  York,  July  2,  1847. 

Bumble-Bee 50 

Bennett,  William  Cox. 

Bom  in  Greenwich,  England,  1820. 

Ope,  Folded  Rose   .        .        .        ...        .        .        6 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  Xlll 

Pacb 

Bensei.,  James  Berry. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  August  2,  1856. 
Died  in  New  York  City,  February  3,  1886. 

A  Sudden  Shower 105 

In  June 73 

Benton,  Joel. 

Born  in  Amenia,  Dutchess  County,  New  York,  May  29,  i8j2. 

The  June  Cricket 118 

Blake,  Mrs.  Mary  Elizabeth  [McGrath]. 

Born  in  Dungarven,  County  Waterford,  Ireland,  September  i,  1840. 

June  .........       29 

To  June 128 

Bolton,  Mrs.  Sarah  Knowles. 

Bom  in  Connecticut,  18 — . 

A  Picture 66 

Botta,  Mrs.  Anne  Charlotte  [Lynch]. 

Bom  in  Bennington,  Vermont,  1820. 

The  Dying  Sycamores 47 

Brown,  Florence  Scollard. 

Born  in  Jackson,  Michigan,  Oct.  30,  1859. 

A  June  Evening 54 

Browning,  Robert. 

Bom  in  Camberwell,  Surrey,  England,  1812. 


Another  Way  of  Love 


XIV  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Fagb 


Hryant,  William  Cullen. 

Boni  in  Cummiiiglon,  Massachusetts,  Novembers,  1794. 
Died  ill  New  Vork  City,  June  12,  1878. 

June 38 

Butts,  Mrs.  Mary  Frances  [Barber]. 

Bom  in  Hopkinton,  Rhode  Island,  November  11,  1836. 

A  Quest 82 

Ch.\dwick,  John  White. 

Born  in  Marblehead,  Massachusetts,  October  19,  1840. 

In  June 14 

Charles,  Mrs.  Emily  [Thornton]. 

Bom  in  Lafayette,  Indiana,  March  21,  1843. 

Summer  Solstice 69 

Cheney,  John  Vance. 

Bom  in  Groveland,  Livingston  Co.,  New  York,  December  29,  1848. 


Song  of  the  Gloaming 


Clare,  John. 

Bom  in  Helpstone,  England,  July  13,  1793. 
Died  in  Northampton,  England,  May  19,  1864. 

Summer ^d 

The  Thrush's  Nest icj 

Collins,  Mortimer. 

Bom  in  Plymouth,  England,  June  29,  1827. 
Died  in  Richmond,  England,  July  28,  1876. 

Amid  the  Limes •  .        .     104 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XV 

Pagb 
Cone,  Helen  Gray. 

Bom  in  New  York  City,  March  8,  1S59. 

Evening  Primroses 89 

The  Dandelions 49 

A  Yellow  Pansy 124 

Dennis,  John. 

Bom  in  Hackney,  near  London,  England,  January  8,  1825. 

In  the  Summertime 36 

DoBELL,  Sydney  Thompson. 

Born  in  Peckham,  Rye,  England,  April  5,  1824. 

Died  near  Nailsworth,  Gloucestershire,  England,  August  22,  1874. 

Summer  Rain  .        .         .         .        .        .        .         .21 

Dor.soN,  Henry  Austin. 

Bom  in  Plymouth,  England,  January  18,  1840. 

To  a  June  Rose 95 

DowDEN,  Edward. 

Born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  May  3,  1843. 

A  Summer  Moon 53 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman. 

Bom  in  New  York  City,  August  7,  1795. 
Died  in  New  York  City,  September  21,  1820. 

Summer  Night  on  the  Hudson        ....     loS 
Fawcett,  Edgar. 

Bom  in  New  York  City,  May  26,  1847. 

Clover 24 

June 75 

To  an  Oriole 130 

A  Humming-Bird 127 


XVI  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS, 

Pagb 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson. 

Bom  in  Bordentown,  New  Jersey,  February  8,  1844. 

On  the  Wild  Rose  Tree 103 

Summer's  Rain  and  Winter's  Snow         .         .         •       7-^ 
Summer  Twilights 129 

GooDALE,  Dora  Read. 

Bom  in  South  Egremont,  Massachusetts,  October  29,  1S66. 

A  June  Day 89 

Griswold,  Mrs.  Hattie  [Tyng]. 

Bom  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  January  26,  1842. 

In  the  Clover 57 

Hartzell,  J.  Hazard. 

Bom  in  Buffalo  Township,  Washington  County,  Pennsylvania,  18 — . 

The  Drought  in  June 104 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton. 

Bom  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  January  i,  1831. 

A  Dream  o£  the  South  Winds  in  June    ...      41 
June xxviii 

Herrick,  Robert. 

Bom  in  London,  England,  August  20,  1591. 

Died  in  Dean  Priors,  Devonshire,  England,  October  15,  1674. 

To  Blossoms 19 

To  Carnations 120 

Hewlett,  Henry  Gay. 

Bom  in  London,  England,  April  4,  1832. 

June 65 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XVU 

Page 

HiGGiNSON,  Susan  Louisa. 

Bom  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  November  ig,  1816. 
Died  in  Portland,  Maine,  August  27,  1875. 

June 68 

HiLDRETH,  Charles  Lotin. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  August  28,  1853. 

June  Days 114 

The  Wood  Thrush 120 

HoBBS,  Mrs.  Mary  Elizabeth  [Erwin]. 

Born  in  Bethany,  New  York,  June  21,  1841. 

June 51 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

Bom  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  August  29,  1809. 

The  Birds  in  Early  June 3 

Hopkins,  Mrs.  Louisa  Parsons  [Stone]. 

Bom  in  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  April  19,  1834. 

Morning  Glories 44 

Houghton,  Alanson  Bigelow. 

Bora  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  October  10,  1863. 

A  Ballade  of  a  Windy  Day 74 

Howells,  William  Dean. 

Born  in  Martinsville,  Ohio,  March  i,  1837. 

The  Long  Days 93 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

Pace 


Hunt,  James  IIknry  Leigh. 

Horn  in  SoulI\gate,  England,  October  19,  1784. 
Died  in  Putney,  England,  August  28,  1859. 

To  June 


Jenner,  Edward. 

Born  in  Berkeley,  Gloucestershire,  England,  May  17,  1749. 
Died  in  Berkeley,  Gloucestershire,  England,  January  26,  1823. 

Signs  of  Rain 17 

Jones,  Mrs.  Rosaline  [Evvan]. 

Bom  in  Sparta,  Dearborn  County,  Indiana,  May  7,  1846. 

The  First  Cricket 118 

Kenyon,  James  Benjamin. 

Born  in  Frankfort,  Herkimer  County,  New  York,  April  26,  1S5S. 

When  Clover  Blooms      ......       94 

Landor,  Walter  Savage. 

Bom  in  Ipsley  Court,  Warwickshire,  England,  January  30,  1775. 
Died  in  Florence,  Italy,  September  17,  1864. 

What  Garden  but  Glows 14 

Larcom,  Lucy. 

Bom  in  Beverly  Farms,  Massachusetts,  1826. 

The  Death  of  June 132 

Lathrop,  George  Parsons. 

Born  in  Honolulu,  Sandwich  Islands,  August  25,  1S51. 

June  Longings 48 

O  June,  Sweet  June loi 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XIX 

Page 

Lazarus,  Emma. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  July  22,  1849. 

A  June  Night 91 

LiDDELL,  Mrs.  Christina  Catharine  [Fraser-Tytler]. 

Bom  in  Narsick,  India,  February  14,  1848. 

A  Day  in  June 33 

Lodge,  Thomas. 

Bom  in  Woolwich,  England,  1618. 
Died  in  London,  England,  1658. 

Love  in  Summertime 35 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth. 

Born  in  Portland,  Maine,  February  27,  1807. 

Died  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  March  24,  1882. 

A  Summer  Day  by  the  Sea 63 

June  . 3 

Lord,  Augustus  Mendon. 

Bom  iu  San  Francisco,  California,  February  7,  1861. 

Boating 22 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Bom  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  February  22,  i8ig. 

In  June 122 

June I 

Now  is  the  High  Tide  of  the  Year  ...       43 

Out  of  doors  in  June Title-page 

The  Bobolink 37 

What  is  so  Rare 96 


XX  IXDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

Pagb 

Mason,  Mrs.  Caroline  Atherton  [Briggs]. 

I!i>rn  ill  Marblehead,  Massachusetts,  July  27,  1823. 

June 43 

Marston,  Philip  Bourke. 

Bom  in  London,  England,  1850. 

A  June  Day 79 

June 121 

Summer's  Return 65 

Marzials,  Theophile. 

Bom  in  England,  1850. 

The  Grafter's  Task  is  Ended 15 

Morris,  George  Perkins. 

Bom  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsj'lvania,  October  10,  1802. 
Died  in  New  York  City,  July  6,  1864. 

Come  to  me  in  Cherry  Time 123 

Morris,  Lewis. 

Bom  in  Caermarthen,  Wales,  January  23,  1833. 

The  Sweet  June  Night 55 

Morris,  William. 

Bom  near  London,  England,  March,  1834. 

A  Night  in  June 56 

June 99 

June  Drew  unto  its  End 132 

Moulton,  Mrs.  Louise  [Chandler]. 

Bom  in  Pomfret,  Connecticut,  April  10,  1835. 

Morning  Glory 64 

She  was  Won  in  an  Idle  Day 102 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XXI 

Page 
MUNKITTRICK,    RiCHARD   KENDALL. 
Born  in  Manchester,  England,  March  5,  1853. 

A  June  Lily 122 

Here 11 

NoRRis,  Alfred. 

Born  in  England,  18 — . 

Summer 6 

NoYES,  Charles  Henry. 

Born  in  Marshall,  Michigan,  July  28,  1849. 

The  Bumble-Bee 80 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn. 

Born  in  Tuscaloosa,  Alabama,  1854. 

Noontide 126 

Puck 130 

Perry,  Nora. 

Bom  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  18 — . 

In  June 39 

Pfeiffer,  Mrs.  Emily  [Davis]. 

Bom  in  England,  18 — . 

Rose  Song 33 

Villanelle 45 

Powers,  Horatio  Nelson. 

Born  in  Amenia,  New  York,  April  30,  1826. 

The  Tulip  Tree  in  Blossom 12 


xxii  INDEX  01'   AUTHORS. 

Pagb 

Proryn,  May. 

Boru  in  England,  18 — . 

Swinging 71 

PROcroR,  Edna  Dean. 

Boni  in  Henniker,  New  Hampshire,  18 — , 

Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  Lose 61 

Rexford,  Eben  Eugene. 

Born  in  Johnsburgh,  Warren  County,  New  York,  July  16,  1848. 

In  June S.3 

Wooing 60 

Rollins,  Mrs.  Alice  Marland  [Wellington]. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  June  12,  1847. 

A  Song  of  Summer 34 

Ropes,  Arthur  Reed. 

Born  in  London,  England,  December  23,  1859. 

On  the  Bridge 26 

Scollard,  Clinton. 

Bom  in  Clinton,  New  York,  September  18,  1S60. 

Across  the  Crimson  Clover  Seas    ....     106 

A  June  Garden  Carol 84 

A  June  Harmony 31 

Sharp,  William. 

Bom  in  England,  18 — . 

A  Summer  Idyl 11 1 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XXllI 

Page 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe. 

Born  in  Field  Place,  near  Horsham,  Surrey,  England,  August  4,  1792. 
Drowned  in  the  Bay  of  Spezzia,  Italy,  July  8,  1822. 

In  Joyous  June 125 

June 81 

Sherman,  Frank  Dempster. 

Born  in  Peekskill,  New  York,  May  6,  i860. 

Rose  Secrets 127 

Summer 2 

Shurtleff,  Ernest  Warburton. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  April  4,  1862. 

June 32 

Smith,  Minna  Caroline. 

Born  in  Monterey,  California,  July  24,  i860. 

June 88 

Spenser,  Edmund. 

Born  in  London,  England,  circa  1553. 
Died  in  London,  England,  January  15,  1599. 

June 15 

Summer 30 

Spofford,  Mrs.  Harriet  Elizabeth  [Prescott]. 

Born  in  Calais,  Maine,  April  3,  1835. 

Ballad .     131 

A  Four  O'clock 67 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry. 

Bom  in  Hingham,  Massachusetts,  July,  1825. 

Summer 16 


XXIV  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

Paob 

Street,  Alfred  Billings. 

Bom  in  PouKlikeepsie,  New  York,  December  iR,  iSii. 
Died  in  Albany,  New  York,  June  2,  1881. 

In  June 97 

SvMONDs,  John  Addington. 

Bom  in  Bristol,  England,  October  5,  1840. 

Summer 1 16 

Tennyson-Turner,  Charles. 

Born  in  Somersby,  Lincolnshire,  England,  July  4,  1S08. 
Died  in  Cheltenham,  England,  April  25,  1879. 

A  Summer  Twilight 56 

Thomas,  Edith  Matilda. 

Born  in  Chatham,  Medina  County,  Ohio,  August  12,  1854. 

Delay 4 

Solstice 69 

Thomson,  James. 

Bom  in  Ednam,  Roxburghshire,  Scotland,  September  11,  1700. 
Died  in  New  Lane,  near  Richmond,  England,  August  27,  1748. 

Summer  Comes 4 

Thompson,  Charles  Miner. 

Bom  in  Montpelier,  Vermont,  March  24,  1864. 

Moonrise  in  June 124 

Todhunter,  John. 

Bom  in  England,  18 — . 

A  June  Day .        .81 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XXV 

Page 

TussER,  Thomas. 

Bom  in  Rivenhall,  near  Witham,  Essex,  England,  circa  13 '5- 
Died  in  London,  circa  1580. 

June's  Husbandry 88 


Umsted,  J.  S.  H. 

Born  in  England,  18 — .  z 

A  Ballade  of  Summer 86 

Wasson,  David  Atwood. 

Born  in  Brooksville,  Maine,  May  14,  1823. 


Joy  Month 


Webster,  Mrs.  Augusta  [Davies]. 

Bom  in  Poole,  Dorsetshire,  England,  1840. 

Oh  the  Merry  Lay  of  June 87 

Wilde,  Oscar  Fingall  O'Flahertie  Wills. 

Bom  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  October  16,  1855. 

Full  Summer  Now 78 

Long  Listless  Summer  Hours         .        .        .        .123 

Wilson,  Robert  Burns. 

Bom  near  Canuonsburgh,  Pennsylvania,  October  30,  1S50. 

June  Days 27 

WooLSON,  Mrs.  Abba  [Goold]. 

Bom  in  Windham,  Maine,  April  30,  1838. 

A  Summer's  Day 115 


XXVI  JA'DEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

Vkc.m 
WooLSON,  Constance  Fen i more. 

Bom  in  Clarcmout,  New  Hampshire,  i8 — . 

The  Heart  of  June 109 

Wordsworth,  William. 

Bom  in  Cockermouth,  Cumberland,  England,  April  7,  1770. 
Died  in  Rydal  Mount,  Westmoreland,  England,  April  23,  1S50. 

The  Longest  Day 70 


JUNE, 


JUNE. 

She  hath  looked  in  the  Sun's,  her  Prince'' s  eyes, 
IVith  a  glance  ''tivixt  passion  and  shy  stirprise, 
Like  her's  who  was  wakened  through  smiles  and  tears 
From  the  spellbound  sleep  of  a  htmdred years. 

She  has  wakened,  too,  with  a  soul  astir 

For  the  radiant  lover  Fate  sends  to  herj 

And  the  earth  is  set  to  a  bridal  tune. 

When  the  Sun-god  marries  his  sweetheart,  June  / 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne, 


JUNE. 


JUNE. 

June  is  the  pearl  of  our  New  England  year. 
Still  a  surprisal,  though  expected  long, 
Her  coming  startles.     Long  she  lies  in  wait, 
Makes  many  a  feint,  peeps  forth,  draws  coyly  back. 
Then,  from  some  southern  ambush  in  the  sky, 
With  one  great  gush  of  blossoms  storms  the  world. 
A  week  ago  the  sparrow  was  divine. 
The  bluebird,  shifting  his  light  load  of  song 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless  fence, 
Was  as  a  rhymer  ere  the  poet  come ; 
But  now,  O  rapture  !  sunshine  winged  and  voiced, 
Pipe  blown  through  by  the  warm  wild  breath  of  the 

west 
Shepherding  his  soft  droves  of  fleecy  cloud. 
Gladness  of  woods,  skies,  waters,  all  in  one, 
The  bobolink  has  come,  and,  like  soul 
Of  the  sweet  season  vocal  in  a  bird, 
Gurgles  in  ecstasy  we  know  not  what 
Save  jfime  !  Dear  jfune  !    Notv  God  be  praised  for 

June. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 
Under  The  Willmvs. 


SUMMER. 


SUMMER. 


Meadows  lost  in  clouds  of  mist; 

Grass  whose  lips  the  dew  has  kissed ; 

Euds  whose  fragrant  breath  is  drawn 

Through  the  freshness  of  the  dawn  ; 

Vines  in  whose  slight  pulses  flows 

Life-blood  of  the  crimson  rose  ; 

Flocks  of  happy-hearted  birds 

Talking  in  melodious  words  ; 

Brooks,  unfettered  by  the  spring, 

Through  the  pastures  murmuring  ; 

Children  prattling  in  their  glee 

Chasing  to  the  mother  sea  ; 

Soft  south  breezes,  gentle  rain, 

Rival  wooers  of  the  plain  ; 

Here  and  there  beside  the  path 

Flowers  emerging  from  their  bath ; 
Waving  forest-floods  of  green, 
Leaves  with  blossoms  white  between. 

Ah !  the  bud  is  open  now. 

Hints  of  fruit  hang  on  the  bough, 

And  the  velvet  rose  is  born 

At  the  coming  of  the  morn  : 

There's  a  gladness  in  the  sun 

Speaks  of  something  new  begun, 

Of  a  work  mysterious 

Nature  has  performed  for  us. 
Hark,  the  honey-bee's  low  hum 
Tells  us  that  the  summer's  come  ! 

P"rank  Dempster  Sherman. 


JUNE.  3 

THE  BIRDS  IN  EARLY  JUNE. 

Then  flash  the  wings  returning  summer  calls 
Through  tlie  deep  arches  of  her  forest  halls  : 
The  bluebird,  breathing  from  his  azure  plumes 
The  fragrance  borrowed  where  the  myrtle  blooms ; 
The  thrush,  poor  wanderer,  dropping  meekly  down, 
Clad  in  his  remnant  of  autumnal  brown  ; 
The  oriole,  drifting  like  a  flake  of  fire 
Rent  like  a  whirlwind  from  a  blazing  spire. 
The  robin,  jerking  his  spasmodic  throat, 
Repeats,  imperious,  his  staccato  note  ; 
The  crack-brained  bobolink  courts  his  crazy  mate 
Poised  on  a  bulrush  tipsy  with  his  weight ; 
Nay,  in  his  cage  the  lone  canary  sings. 
Feels  the  soft  air,  and  spreads  his  idle  wings. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
Spring. 


JUNE. 

Mine  is  the  Month  of  Roses ;  yes  and  mine 

The  Month  of  Marriages  !     All  pleasant  sights 
And  scents,  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoming  vine, 

The  foliage  of  the  valleys  and  the  heights. 

Mine  are  the  longest  days,  the  loveliest  nights ; 
The  mower's  scythe  makes  music  to  my  ear; 

I  am  the  mother  of  all  dear  delights ; 
I  am  the  fairest  daughter  of  the  year. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 
The  Poct^s  Calendar. 


DELAY.  — SUMMER   COMES. 

DELA  V. 

O  Spirit  of  the  Spring,  delay,  delay ! 

Be  chary  of  thy  gifts ;  by  slow  degrees 

Roll  back  the  leafy  tide  on  forest  trees ; 
And  in  all  fields  keep  thou  a  jealous  sway, 
Lest  the  low  grass  break  into  sudden  spray, 

And  clover  toss  its  purples  on  the  breeze. 

Bind  fast  those  lily-buds,  that  pr^'ing  bees 
Shall  have  no  entrance,  murmur  as  they  may. 
Scatter  not  yet  the  orchard's  scented  snows, 

Nor  break  the  cage  tliat  holds  the  butterfly, 

Nor  let  the  blow-ball  wander  up  the  sky : 
What !  flown  so  lightly?     By  yon  upstart  rose, 
Summer  is  here  with  all  her  gaudy  shows. 

O  Spirit  of  the  Spring,  good-by,  good-by ! 

EniTii  Matilda  Thomas 


SUMMER   COMES. 

From  brightening  fields  of  ether  fair  disclosed, 

Child  of  the  sun,  refulgent  Summer  comes. 

In  pride  of  youth,  and  felt  through  Nature's  depth  : 

He  comes  attended  by  the  sultr)'  hours. 

And  ever-fanning  breezes,  on  his  way  ; 

While,  from  his  ardent  look,  the  turning  Spring 

Averts  her  blushing  face  ;  and  earth,  and  skies, 

All-smiling,  to  his  hot  dominion  leaves. 

James  Thomson. 
The  Seasons. 


THE  DEPARTURE   OF  THE   CUCKOO  5 

THE  DEPARTURE   OF  THE   CUCKOO. 

So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 

When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er, 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day,  — 
When  garden  walks  and  all  the  grassy  floor 
With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May 

And  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn,  — 

So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden  trees, 
Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze  : 

The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  If 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Soon  will  the  high  midsummer  pomps  come  on. 
Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell, 

Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon, 
Sweet-William  with  his  homely  cottage-smell, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow ; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar, 

And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 

And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden  trees, 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening  star. 

He  hearkens  not !  light  comer,  he  is  flown  ! 
What  matters  it  ?  next  year  he  will  return, 

And  we  shall  have  him  in  the  sweet  spring  days, 
With  whitening  hedges,  and  uncrumpling  fern, 
And  bluebells  trembling  by  the  forest  ways, 
And  scent  of  hay  new  mown. 

Matthew  Arnold. 
Thyrsis. 


6  SUMMER. 

OPE,  FOLDED  ROSE. 

Ope,  folded  rose  ! 
Longs  for  thy  beauty  the  expectant  air ; 
Longs  every  silken  breeze  that  round  thee  blows  ; 
The  watching  summer  longs  to  vaunt  thee  fair; 

Ope,  folded  rose  ! 

Ope,  folded  rose ! 
The  memory  of  thy  glory  lit  the  gloom, 
The  dull  grey  gloom  of  winter  and  its  snows ; 
O  dream  of  summer  in  the  firelit  room, 

Ope,  folded  rose  ! 

William  Cox  Bennett. 


SUMMER. 

Dancing  along  the  lands 

Green-gowned  summer  has  come,  her  robe  spread 
out  in  her  hands. 

And  to  see  her  the  morn  wakes  soon,  and  the  even- 
ing is  loth  to  go, 

Whilst  the  stars  crowd  thick  in  the  sky  to  watch  her 
in  sleep  below. 

To  prepare  for  her  coming,  the  sun 
Worked  with  a  burning  touch,  and  to-day  all  his 
work  is  done  : 


SUMMER.  7 

The  fields  with  their  flowers  are  dressed,  the  grasses 

are  long  and  soft ; 
The  birds  have  their  song  in  the  bushes,  the  bees 

their  drone  in  the  croft. 

You  meet  her  in  earliest  dawn 

Breathing  most  fragrant  breath  by  the  side  of  the 
blossoming  thorn ; 

Laughing  along  by  the  streams,  or  pausing  in  val- 
leys still, 

Or  painting  with  tender  tints  the  bare  brown  rocks 
on  the  hill. 

Oft  in  the  noontide  heat 
She  turns  to  the  antique  woods  where  the  dew  lies 

fresh  for  her  feet ; 
Where  the  green  lights  fall  through  the  leaves  on 

couches  of  rounded  moss. 
And  the  sway  of  a  wind-swung  bough  throws  shadow 

and  sunshine  across. 

Then  at  the  end  of  the  day, 
Out  at  the  edge  of  the  sea  when  the  waves  plash 

cool  on  the  bay; 
And  a  pathway  of  gold  is  traced  from  the  Palace  of 

Sunset's  door 
Far  over  the  heaving  tide  to  the  smooth  wet  sand  on 

the  shore. 

Quickly  wherever  she  goes 
Comes  a  warmer  waft  to  the  wind  and  a  richer  red 
to  the  rose  ; 


8  JOY  MONTH. 

On  the  wave  a  bluer  surge,  in  the  orchard  a  whiter 

bloom, 
A  brightening  light  for  the  sky  and  greener  grass  for 

the  tomb. 

Alfred  Norris. 


JOY  MONTH. 

O  HARK  to  the  brown  thrush !  hear  how  he  sings ! 

How  he  pours  the  dear  pain  of  his  gladness  ! 
What  a  gush  !  and  from  out  what  golden  springs  ! 

What  a  rage  of  how  sweet  madness  ! 

And  golden  the  buttercup  blooms  by  the  way, 

A  song  of  the  joyous  ground ; 
While  the  melody  rained  from  yonder  spray 

Is  a  blossom  in  fields  of  sound. 

How  glisten  the  eyes  of  the  happy  leaves ! 

How  whispers  each  blade,  "  1  am  blest !  " 
Rosy  heaven  his  lips  to  flowered  earth  gives, 

With  the  costliest  bliss  of  his  breast. 

Pour,  pour  of  the  wine  of  thy  heart,  O  Nature, 

By  cups  of  field  and  sky, 
By  the  brimming  soul  of  every  creature  ! 

Joy-inad,  dear  Mother,  am  I ! 


TO  JUNE.  9 

Tongues,  tongues   for   my  joy,  for   my  joy !   more 
tongues ! 
O  thanks  to  the  thrush  on  the  tree, 
To  the  sky,  and  to  all  earth's  blooms  and  songs ! 
They  utter  the  heart  in  me. 

David  Atwood  Wasson. 


TO  JUNE. 

May's  a  word  'tis  sweet  to  hear, 
Laughter  of  the  budding  year ; 
Sweet  it  is  to  start,  and  say 
On  May  morning,  "  This  is  May  !  " 
But  there  also  breathes  a  tune. 
Hear  it,  —  in  the  sound  of  "  June." 
June's  a  month,  and  June's  a  name, 
Never  yet  hath  had  its  fame. 
Summer's  in  the  sound  of  June, 
Summer  and  a  deepened  tune 
Of  the  bees,  and  of  the  birds, 
And  of  loitering  lovers'  words, 
And  the  brooks  that,  as  they  go, 
Seem  to  think  aloud,  yet  low ; 
And  the  voice  of  early  heat. 
Where  the  mirth-spun  insects  meet ; 
And  the  very  color's  tone 
Russet  now,  and  fervid  grown  ; 
All  a  voice,  as  if  it  spoke 


lO  TO  JUNE. 

Of  the  brown  wood's  cottage  smoke, 
And  the  sun,  and  bright  green  oak. 
O  come  quickly,  show  thee  soon, 
Come  at  once  with  all  thy  noon. 
Manly,  joyous,  gipsy  June. 

May,  the  jade,  with  her  fresh  cheek 
And  the  love  the  bards  bespeak, 
!May,  by  coming  first  in  sight, 
Half  defrauds  thee  of  thy  right ; 
For  her  best  is  shared  by  thee 
With  a  wealthier  potency, 
So  that  thou  dost  bring  us  in 
A  sort  of  Maytime  masculine, 
Fit  for  action  or  for  rest, 
As  the  luxury  seems  the  best, 
Bearding  now  the  morning  breeze, 
Or  in  love  with  paths  of  trees. 
Or  disposed,  full  length,  to  lie 
With  a  hand-enshaded  eye 
On  thy  warm  and  golden  slopes, 
Basker  in  the  buttercups, 
Listening  with  nice  distant  ears 
To  the  shepherd's  clapping  shears, 
Or  the  next  field's  laughing  play 
In  the  happy  wars  of  hay, 
While  its  perfume  breathes  all  over. 
Or  the  bean  comes  fine,  or  clover. 

O  could  I  walk  round  the  earth, 
With  a  heart  to  share  my  mirth, 


HERE.  1 1 

With  a  look  to  love  me  ever, 
Thoughtful  much,  but  sullen  never, 
I  could  be  content  to  see 
June,  and  no  variety. 
Loitering  here,  and  living  there, 
With  a  book  and  frugal  fare. 
With  a  finer  gipsy  time, 
And  a  cuckoo  in  the  clime, 
Work  at  morn,  and  mirth  at  noon. 
And  sleep  beneath  the  sacred  moon. 

James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt. 


HERE. 

A  FLOWERY  veil  o'er  the  glen  unfurls. 
The  sky  is  bright  with  a  jasper  sheen, 

The  wind-swayed  daisy  the  dewdrop  pearls 
As  an  opal  the  brow  of  an  Eastern  queen. 

The  garden  is  fragrant  everywhere, 
In  its  lily-bugles  the  gold  bee  sups, 

And  butterflies  flutter  on  winglets  fair. 
Round  the  tremulous  meadow  buttercups. 

O  summer  is  here  with  its  breezy  train 

I  know  by  the  robin's  roundelay 
That  floats  from  the  sumach  in  the  lane 

All  mixt  with  the  perfume  of  new-mown  hay. 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick. 


1 2  THE    TULIP   TKEE  IN  BLOSSOM. 

THE   TULIP   TREE  IN  BLOSSOM. 

SvLVAN  splendor  !  meadows'  pride  ! 
Pet  of  lawns,  and  summer's  bride  ! 
Naught  but  perfumed  airs,  and  words 
Culled  from  madrigals  of  birds. 
Strains  of  lapsing  brooks  between 
Rosy  rocks  and  banks  of  green, 
Whispers  in  the  scented  grass, 
As  the  robins  pause  and  pass, 
Echoes  of  far-off  cascades 
In  the  gleam  of  moonlit  glades, 
Suit  the  mellow  roundelays 
That  should  carol  in  thy  praise. 

As  if  I  should  try  to  paint 
Sacred  raptures  of  a  saint, 
So  I  strive  with  loving  strain  — 
Strive  and  strive,  alas  !  in  vain, 
All  thy  witching  charms  to  tell, — 
Flora's  woodland  miracle  ! 

Tell  me,  therefore,  gracious  one, 
Of  thy  dalliance  with  the  sun, 
What  elixir  feeds  thy  shoots. 
The  alembic  at  thy  roots, 
That  thy  life  so  fair  should  be  — 
Spirit  breathing  in  a  tree  ! 
Tell  me  of  thy  trance  at  noon 
In  the  luscious  kiss  of  June  ; 


HAYTIME.  13 

All  thy  languors,  heats,  desire, 
Till  thy  blossoms  glow  like  fire  ; 
Why  the  zephyrs  ne'er  refuse 
Thee  the  secret  forest  news, 
How  is  caught  the  tender  gold 
That  thy  royal  pitchers  hold. 
And  to  all  as  freely  pour 
As  if  Dance  felt  the  shower. 
Do  the  birds  thy  boughs  among 
Learn  a  catch  of  fresher  song  ? 
Why  does  every  vagrant  bee 
Feel  so  much  at  home  with  thee'. 
Tell  me  why,  beside  thy  feet, 
Love  to  lovers  seems  more  sweet, 
Happy  lovers  think  they  stand 
In  the  bower  of  fairyland, 
And  the  poet's  heart  is  pressed 
Closer  still  to  Beauty's  breast. 

Vain  I  ask,  —  but  still  I  feel 
All  I  pray  thee  to  reveal. 
Life  of  thine  is  life  to  me, 
High-born,  peerless  Tulip  Tree  ! 

Horatio  Nelson  Powers. 


HA  YTIME. 

Haytime's  here 

In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames. 

Matthew  Arnold. 
The  Scholar  Gipsy. 


14  WHAT  GARDEiV  BUT  GLOWS. 

IN  JUNE. 

"  I  slunu you  a  mysicTy." 

O  FRIEND,  your  face  I  cannot  see, 

Your  voice  I  cannot  hear, 
But  for  us  both  breaks  at  our  feet 

The  floodtide  of  the  year ; 
The  summertide  all  beautiful 

With  fragrance,  and  with  song 
Sung  by  the  happy-hearted  birds 

To  cheer  the  months  along. 

And  so  the  mystery  I  show 

Is  this,  all  simple-sweet : 
Because  God's  summertide  so  breaks 

At  yours  and  at  my  feet, 
We're  not  so  very  far  apart 

As  it  at  first  would  seem ; 
We're  near  each  other  2?i  the  Lord ; 

The  miles  are  all  a  dream. 

John  White  Chadwick. 


WHAT  GARDEN  BUT  GLOWS. 

What  garden  but  glows 
With  at  least  its  one  rose 
Whether  sunny  or  shower)'  be  June  ? 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 
Last  Fruit  off  an  Old  Tree. 


JUNE.  1 5 

THE  GRAFTER'S  TASK  IS  ENDED. 

The  grafter's  task  is  ended  ; 

The  long  day  verged  in  June  ; 
The  blue-downed  plum  descended 

From  boughs  bent  down  o'ersoon ; 
Amid  the  sunset  blended, 

The  silvery  streak  of  moon 
The  day  has  scarcely  ended 

From  rosy  night  to  noon ; 
And  spring  has  sunk  to  summer ; 
And  Death's  sweet  voice  gets  dumber. 
For  Love,  the  latest  comer, 

Has  taken  up  the  tune. 

Theophile  Marzials. 

In  the  Temple  of  Love, 


JUNE. 

.  .  .  Came  Jolly  June,  arrayed 

AH  in  green  leaves,  as  he  a  player  were  ; 

Yet  in  his  time  he  wrought  as  well  as  played. 

That  by  his  plow-irons  mote  right  well  appear. 

Upon  a  Crab  he  rode,  that  did  him  bear 

With  crooked  crawling  steps  an  uncouth  pace. 

And  backward  yode,  as  bargemen  wont  to  fare 

Bending  their  force  contrary  to  their  face, 

Like   that   ungracious   crew  which   fains   demurest 

grace. 

Edmund  Spenser. 

The  Faerie  Queene. 


1 6  SUMMER. 

ON  THE  EDGE   OE  THE  MARSH. 

IN    NOVEMDER. 

Dead  sienna  and  rusty  gold 
Tell  the  year  on  the  marsh  is  old. 
Blackened  and  bent,  the  sedges  shrink 
Back  from  the  sea  pool's  frosty  brink. 
Low  in  the  west  a  wind  cloud  lies, 
Tossed  and  wild  in  the  autumn  skies. 
Over  the  marshes,  mournfully, 
Drifts  the  sound  of  the  restless  sea. 

IN    JUNE. 

Fair  and  green  is  the  marsh  in  June  ; 
Wide  and  warm  in  the  sunny  noon. 
The  flowering  rushes  fringe  the  pool 
With  slender  shadows,  dim  and  cool. 
From  the  low  bushes  "  Bob  White  "  calls ; 
Into  his  nest  a  roseleaf  falls. 
The  blueflag  fades  ;  and  through  the  heat, 
Far  off,  the  sea's  faint  pulses  beat. 

Antoinette  Alcott  Bassett. 


SUMMER. 

The  summertime  has  come  again, 
With  all  its  light  and  mirth. 

And  June  leads  on  the  laughing  Hours 
To  bless  the  weary  earth. 


S/GJ^S  OF  RAIN.  ly 

The  sunshine  lies  along  the  street, 

So  dim  and  cold  before, 
And  in  the  open  window  creeps 

And  slumbers  on  the  floor. 

The  country  was  so  fresh  and  fine 

And  beautiful  in  May, 
It  must  be  more  than  beautiful, 

A  Paradise  to-day ! 

If  I  were  only  there  again, 

I'd  seek  the  lanes  apart, 
And  shout  aloud  in  mighty  woods, 

To  ease  my  happy  heart ! 

But  prisoned  here  with  flat  brick  walls, 

I  sit  alone  and  sigh ; 
My  only  glimpse  of  summer  near, 

A  strip  of  cloudy  sky. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


S/CA'S  or  RAIN. 

The  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow, 
The  clouds  look  black,  the  glass  is  low, 
The  soot  falls  down,  the  spaniels  sleep, 
The  spiders  from  their  cobwebs  peep  : 
Last  night  the  sun  went  pale  to  bed, 
The  moon  in  haios  hid  her  head ; 


l8  S/G.VS  OF  RAIN. 

The  boding  shepherd  heaves  a  sigh, 
For,  see,  a  rainbow  spans  the  sky : 
The  walls  are  damp,  the  ditches  smell, 
Closed  is  the  pink-eyed  pimpernel. 
Hark  how  the  chairs  and  tables  crack ! 
Old  Betty's  joints  are  on  the  rack  ; 
Loud  quack  the  ducks,  the  peacocks  cry. 
The  distant  hills  are  seeming  nigh. 
How  restless  are  the  snorting  swine  ; 
The  busy  flies  disturb  the  kine ; 
Low  o'er  the  grass  the  swallow  wings, 
The  cricket,  too,  how  sharp  he  sings ; 
Puss  on  the  hearth,  with  velvet  paws, 
Sits  wiping  o'er  her  whiskered  jaws. 
Through  the  clear  stream  the  fishes  rise, 
And  nimbly  catch  the  incautious  flies. 
The  glowworms,  numerous  and  bright. 
Illumed  the  dewy  dell  last  night. 
At  dusk  the  squalid  toad  was  seen, 
Hopping  and  crawling  o'er  the  green  ; 
The  whirling  wind  the  dust  obeys, 
And  in  the  rapid  eddy  plays  ; 
The  frog  has  changed  his  yellow  vest 
And  in  a  russet  coat  is  dressed. 
Though  June,  the  air  is  cold  and  still, 
The  mellow  blackbird's  voice  is  shrill. 
My  dog,  so  altered  in  his  taste, 
Quits  muttonbones  on  grass  to  feast ; 
And  see  yon  rooks,  how  odd  their  flight, 
They  imitate  the  gliding  kite, 


TO  BLOSSOMS.  1 9 

And  seem  precipitate  to  fall, 
As  if  they  felt  the  piercing  ball. 
'Twill  surely  rain,  I  see  with  sorrow, 
Our  jaunt  must  be  put  off  to-morrow. 

Edward  Jenner. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past. 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  a  while, 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 

And  go  at  last. 

What,  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight. 

And  so  to  bid  goodnight  ? 
'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth. 
Merely  to  show  your  worth 

And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  ; 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride. 

Like  you  a  while,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

Robert  Herrick. 


20  JUNE. 

JUNE. 

Never  was  my  life's  ncgltcted  garden 
Half  so  full  of  fragrance  as  to-day ; 

Never  has  the  world  been  half  so  radiant, 
Nor  its  shapes  of  sorrow  and  dismay 
Ever  seemed  so  few  and  far  away. 

Wide  the  chestnut  waves  its  spreading  branches, 
In  a  white  bewilderment  of  bloom, 

And  the  lilacs,  overwhelmed  with  blossoms, 
Drooping  like  a  wounded  warrior's  plume, 
Hang  their  faint  heads  weary  with  perfume. 

On  the  sea  a  veil  of  silvery  softness. 
Faint,  and  filmy,  and  mysterious,  lies, 

Blending  doubtfully  the  far  horizon 
With  the  azure  of  the  smiling  skies, 
Tender  as  the  blue  of  loving  eyes. 

On  the  grass  the  fallen  apple  blossoms 
Heap  a  pillow  rosy-hued  and  rare, 

While  the  dim  ghosts  of  the  dandelions 
Sail  serenely  in  the  untroubled  air, 
And  the  clover  blushes  everywhere. 

In  the  leaves  a  bobolink  is  pouring 

Passion-songs  which  brook  no  pause  or  rest ; 

Hark  !  how  gushingly  the  liquid  music 
Swells  and  overflows  his  trembling  breast. 
Like  a  love  that  cannot  be  repressed ! 


SUMMER  RAIN.  21 

O  the  joy,  the  kixury,  the  rapture, 

Thus  to  brush  away  the  chains  of  care. 

Thus  to  drop  the  mask  from  heart  and  forehead, 
To  be  glad  and  young  again,  and  wear 
Lilies  of  the  valley  in  my  hair ! 

Far  away,  unfelt  and  scarce  remembered. 
Seems  the  world-life  harsh  and  turbulent, 

So  much  harmony,  and  joy  and  beauty, 
In  this  matchless  day  of  days  are  blent, 
I  desire  no  more,  —  I  am  content ! 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Ann  [Chase]  [Akers]  Allen. 


SUMMER  RAIN. 

Rain,  rain,  sweet  warm  rain, 

On  the  wood  and  on  the  plain ; 

Rain,  rain,  warm  and  sweet. 

Summer  wood  lush  leafy  and  loud. 

With  note  of  a  throat  that  ripples  and  rings. 

Sad  sole  sweet  from  her  central  seat, 

Bubbling  and  trilling. 

Filling,  filling,  filling 

The  shady  space  of  the  green  dim  place 

With  an  odor  of  melody. 

Till  the  noon  is  thrilling, 

And  the  great  wood  hangs  in  the  balmy  day 

Like  a  cloud  with  an  angel  in  the  cloud. 

And  singing  because  she  sings  ! 


22  BOATING. 

Rain,  rain,  warm  sweet  rain, 

On  the  wood  and  on  the  plain  ; 

Rain,  rain,  still  and  sweet. 

For  the  winds  have  hushed  again, 

And  the  nightingale  is  still, 

Sleeping  in  her  central  seat. 

Rain,  rain,  summer  rain. 

Silent  as  the  summer  heat. 

Doth  it  fall,  or  doth  it  rise  ? 

Is  it  incense  from  the  hill, 

Or  bounty  from  the  skies  ? 

Or  is  the  face  of  earth  that  lies 

Languid,  looking  up  on  high. 

To  the  face  of  heaven  so  nigh 

That  their  balmy  breathings  meet  ? 

Sydney  Dobell. 
A  Shower  in  War  Time. 


BOA  TING. 

A  June  day,  cool  from  recent  rain  ; 

The  sky  without  a  speck  or  stain 

To  mark  the  grey  storm's  toil  and  stress ; 

The  brimming  river  rippleless. 

Into  the  stream  the  long  boat  swings ; 

Soft  drop  her  oars,  like  sinewy  wings. 

And  more  than  lifeless  steel  and  wood, 

She  leaps  into  the  middle  flood. 

Her  strength  is  ours,  our  will  is  hers. 

One  life  wathin  us  thrills  and  stirs. 


BOATING.  23 

What  joy  with  rhythmic  sweep  and  sway 

To  fly  along  the  liquid  way, 

To  feel  each  tense-drawn  muscle  strain, 

And  hear  the  dripping  blade's  refrain ; 

Or,  resting  on  the  level  oar, 

To  drift  beside  the  dusky  shore 

Through  green  pads  whispering  as  we  pass, 

And  bending  beds  of  pickerel  grass, 

And  watch  with  eager,  grateful  eye 

The  woodland's  changing  pageantry ; 

The  gnarled  oaks  spreading  broad  and  low. 

The  elms  that  like  leaf-fountains  grow ; 

Ash,  chestnut,  lightsome  maple  grove, 

With  elder-thickets  interwove, 

And,  sharply  clear  against  the  green. 

The  swaying  birch's  silver  sheen. 

We  catch  the  smell  of  sun-warmed  pines. 

Of  marsh-pinks,  and  of  wild  grape  vines, 

And  scent,  that  make  the  bee's  heart  glad, 

Of  pungent  Balm  of  Gilead. 

And  now,  in  sunlight  once  again, 

We  round  the  headland's  narrow  plain ; 

Three  strokes,  and  on  the  shelving  sand 

We  bring  the  willing  boat  to  land ; 

Then  off  through  stubbly  pasture  dells 

Sparse- set  with  cedar  sen-tinels, 

To  where  in  cool,  leaf-laughing  nook 

Slips  o'er  the  stones  the  swollen  brook. 

Outstretched  full  length  beside  the  stream, 

We  lie  half-waking,  half  in  dream, 


24  CLOVER. 

And  feast  our  cars  with  woodland  notes. 
Ddun  the  warm  air  the  wren's  song  floats, 
Sharp  trumpets  out  the  angry  jay. 
Hark !  from  some  tree  top  far  away 
The  catbird's  saucy  answer  falls ; 
And,  when  all  else  is  silent,  calls, 
Deep  bowered  on  some  shady  hill, 
The  day-caught,  sleepy  whippoorwill. 
But  look  !  the  level  sunbeams  shine 
Along  the  tree  trunks'  gleaming  line ; 
A  sea  of  gold,  the  water  fills 
The  purple  circle  of  the  hills. 
Home  then  our  sparkling  path  we  trace, 
The  sunset's  glory  in  our  face, 
Which  fades  and  fades,  till  as  we  reach 
The  low  pier  and  the  shingly  beach, 
On  stream,  and  wood,  and  hilltop  bare 
The  moon's  soft  light  lies  everywhere. 

Augustus  Mendon  Lord. 


CLOVER. 

Wild  rustic  cousins  of  the  dainty  rose, 

Whose  fragrant  banquets  lure  the  greedy  bees, 

Haytime's  pink  prophecies  while  young  June  goes. 
How  brightly  spread  your  many-blossoming  seas, 
Rippled  whichever  way  the  warm  winds  please. 

Laughterful  children  feel  your  tufts  of  bloom 
Brush  their  soft  limbs,  alert  with  merry  leaps. 


CLOVER.  25 

The  iridescent  humming  bird's  low  boom 
With  mellow  music  thrills  your  balmy  deeps, 
Where  dew  that  was  born  yesterday  still  sleeps ! 

Here,  too,  the  massive  lazy  cow,  star-eyed. 

Thrusts  down  her  dark  moist  nose,  and  all  day 
long. 
By  your  delicious  feast  unsatisfied, 

Crops   with   rough  florid    tongue   your  honeyed 

throng, 
Lashing  off  flies  with  her  tail's  restless  thong. 

Or  sometimes  from  your  cool  bournes,  where  it  hid, 
A  butterfly  soars  fluttering,  breeze-assailed, 

Gay  as  those  flowery  gondolas  that  slid 

Through    sculptured   Venice    in   old    days,    and 

trailed 
Brocades  and  velvets  where  they  softly  sailed ! 

O  clover,  tended  by  the  shining  showers 
Until  your  lavish  color  gladlier  beams, 

Or,  through  the  yellow  calms  of  morning  hours, 
Dappled  with  interchange  of  glooms  and  gleams, 
Like  vague  recurrences  of  differing  dreams, 

Does  Nature  act  in  you  her  frankest  part. 

And  are  you  thoughts  that  she  would  simply  say, 

Speaking  them  right  from  her  full-throbbing  heart  ? 
Or  were  you  made  in  some  mysterious  way, 
From  damask  blushes  of  young  morns  in  May  ? 

Edgar  Fawcett. 


26  THE  EARLIEST  BREATH  OF  JUNE. 

ON  THE  BRIDGE. 

All  the  storm  has  rolled  away, 

Only  now  a  cloud  or  two 
Drifts  in  ragged  disarray 

Over  the  deep  darkened  blue ; 
And  the  risen  golden  moon 

Shakes  the  shadows  of  the  trees 

Round  the  river's  stillnesses 
And  the  bird  song  of  the  June. 

Under  me  the  current  glides, 

Brown  and  deep  and  dimly  lit. 
Soundless  save  against  the  sides 

Of  the  arch  that  narrows  it ; 
And  the  only  sound  that  grieves 

Is  a  noise  that  never  stops, 

Footsteps  of  the  falling  drops 
Down  the  ladders  of  the  leaves. 

Arthur  Reed  Ropes. 


THE  EARLIEST  BREATH  OF  JUNE. 

The  earliest  breath  of  June 
Blows  the  white  tassels  from  the  cherry  boughs, 
And  in  the  deepest  shadow  of  the  noon 
The  mild-eyed  oxen  browse. 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Ann  [Chase]  [Akers]  Allen. 

Violet  Planting. 


JUNE  DAYS.  27 

JUNE  DAYS. 

The  whilom  hills  of  grey,  whose  tender  shades 
Were  dashed  with  meagre  tints  of  early  spring, 

Lift  now  their  rustling  domes  and  colonnades, 
And  from  their  airy  battlements  they  fling 

Their  banners  to  the  wind,  and  in  the  glades 
Spread  rich  pavilions  for  the  summer's  king. 

Now  lifts  the  love-lit  soul,  and  life's  full  tide 

Swells  from  the  ground  and  beats  the  trembling 
air, 

Mounts  up  the  steeps,  and  on  the  landscape  wide 
Spreads,  like  a  boundless  ocean  everywhere ; 

Delight's  dear  dreams  the  dancing  waves  divide, 
And  with  swift  sails  outfly  pursuing  care. 

The  sometime  fields  that  sad  and  sodden  lay, 

Soaked  in  the  first  cold  rains,   or  flecked  with 
snow. 

With  helpless  grasses  trodden  in  the  clay 
By  shivering  herds  that  wandered  to  and  fro. 

Wave  now  with  grain,  and  happy  birds  all  day 
Pipe,  hidden  on  the  slopes  with  flowers  ablow. 

The  yellow  streams  that  fled  from  winter's  hold 

When  first  the  young  year  saw  the  vernal  moon. 
And  lapped  the  yielding  banks  whose   moistened 
mold 
Slipped   mingling  with  the  flood,   now  sleep  at 
noon. 


28  yrXE  DAYS. 

Calm  as  the  imaged  hills  which  they  enfold, 
All  glimmering  in  the  long,  long  skies  of  June. 

The  brindled  meadow  hides  the  winding  path 
With  interlacing  clover,  white  and  red ; 

The  blackbirds,  startled  from  their  dewy  bath, 
Fly  chattering,  joyful  with  imagined  dread  ; 

The  while  the  whetting  scythe  foretells  the  swath, 
And  rings  the  knell  of  flowers  that  are  not  dead. 

Now  waves  of  sunlight  cross  the  field  of  wheat ; 

The  shining  crow  toward  the  woodland  flies ; 
Far  in  the  fields  the  larks  their  notes  repeat. 

And  from  the  fence  the  whistling  partridge  cries ; 
Now  to  the  cooling  shades  the  cows  retreat, 

To  drowse  and  dream  with  mild,  half-opening  eyes. 

No  other  days  are  like  the  days  in  June  ; 

They  stand  upon  the  summit  of  the  year. 
Filled  up  with  sweet  remembrance  of  the  tune 

That  wooed  the  fresh  spring  fields ;  they  have  a 
tear 
For  violets  dead  ;  they  will  engird  full  soon 

The  sweet  full  breasts  of  Summer  drawing  near. 

Each  matchless  morning  marches  from  the  east 

In  tints  inimitable  and  divine  ; 
Each  perfect  noon  sustains  that  endless  feast 

In  which  the  wedded  charms  of  life  combine ; 
Sweet  Evening  waits  till  golden  Day,  released. 

Shall  lead  her  blushing  down  the  world's  decline. 


JUNE.  29 

And  when  the  day  is  done,  a  crimson  band 

Lies  glowing  on  the  hushed  and  darkening  west ; 

The  groups  of  trees  like  whispering  spirits  stand  ; 
The  robin's  song  lifts  from  its  trembling  breast ; 

The  shadows  steal  out  from  the  twilight  land ; 
And  all  is  peace  and  quietness  and  rest. 

Robert  Burns  Wilson. 


JUNE. 

An  odorous  breath  of  drowsy  noon 
Creeping  across  the  tangled  grass ; 

The  locusts'  hum,  the  crickets'  tune, 
The  wild  birds  singing  as  they  pass ; 

Mist  where  the  distant  mountains  rise, 
Mist  where  the  valleys  nearer  lie, 

Veiling  the  light  of  Nature's  eyes. 
Wrapping  together  earth  and  sky  ; 

Tremulous  boughs  of  waving  trees 
Raining  down  shadows  cool  and  fair, 

Murmurous  sighing  summer  breeze 
Falling  across  the  tranced  air ; 

Mirroring  back  the  azure  dome 

Lies  the  lake  by  the  pine-crowned  hill, 

Only  the  swell  of  its  silver  foam 
Making  the  silence  deeper  still. 


30  SUMMER. 

Wonderful  days  of  love  and  life, 

Magical  days  whose  siren  kiss 
Hushes  to  rest  the  inward  strife, 

And  life  alone  is  perfect  bliss. 

Beautiful  days  to  sit  apart, 

With  but  one  friend  to  share  your  throne, 
Feeling  the  pulse  of  that  dear  heart 

Beat  through  the  silence  with  your  own ; 

Until  the  twilight  pale  and  grey 

Woke  on  the  shadowy  evening's  breast, 

And  breathed  above  the  dying  day 
Her  evening  hymn  of  peace  and  rest. 

Mrs.  Mary  Elizabeth  [McGrath]  Blake. 


SUMMER. 

Then  came  the  jolly  Summer,  being  dight 

In  a  thin  silken  cassock  colored  green, 

That  was  unlined  all,  to  be  more  light ; 

And  on  his  head  a  garland  well  beseen 

He  wore,  from  which,  as  he  had  chafed  been, 

The  sweat  did  drip ;  and  in  his  hand  he  bore 

A  bow  and  shafts,  as  he  in  forest  green 

Had  hunted  late  the  Libbard  or  the  Boar, 

And  now  would  bathe  his  limbs  with  labor  heated 

sore. 

EdiMund  Spenser. 
The  J^aerie  Queene. 


A  yUNE  HARMONY.  3 1 

A    JUNE  HARMONY. 

A  BIRD  in  the  boughs  sang  "  June," 
And  "  June  "  hummed  a  bee 
In  a  bacchic  glee 

As  he  tumbled  over  and  over, 

Drunk  with  the  honey-dew ; 

Then  the  woods  took  up  the  tune, 

And  the  rippling  runnels  too, 
The  tune  of  the  bird  that  sang  in  the  tree 
And  the  bee  that  buzzed  in  the  clover. 

And  "  June  "  cried  the  leaves  in  time 
Till  crickets  at  night, 
With  a  wild  delight, 

Sang  "  June  "  to  the  moon  downbeaming, 
"  June  "  to  the  moon  and  stars ; 
And  the  grasses  seemed  to  chime 

With  the  music's  mellow  bars, 
While  butterflies  danced  with  airy  flight 
In  the  sunlight  amber-gleaming. 

And  the  flowers  were  glad  that  swayed 
In  the  breeze  whose  tune 
Was  forever  "  June  ;  " 

The  rose  and  the  regal  lily, 

The  humble  blooms  of  the  mead, 
The  fragile  ferns  in  the  glade, 

The  quivering  rush  and  reed, 
All  joyed  in  the  azure  afternoon 

And  the  morn  and  the  evening  stilly. 


32  JUNE. 

And  the  song  in  every  heart 
Found  echo,  and  rang 
While  the  green  hills  sang 

With  a  throb  and  thrill  of  pleasure; 
Alike  the  old  and  the  young, 
As  they  felt  their  pulses  start, 

To  their  musical  mirth  gave  tongue, 
Till  from  vale  and  hill  the  chorus  sprang 
In  a  swelling,  merrying  measure. 

O  joy  to  be  out  in  June 
'Neath  the  cloudless  blue 
In  the  dawTi  and  dew 

'Mid  the  ruddy  buds  of  clover, 
To  be  out,  alert  and  free  ! 
For  life  is  a  precious  boon 

With  the  world  in  harmony, 
When  June  wakes  love  in  the  heart  anew 
And  the  cup  of  bliss  brims  over. 

Clinton  Scollard. 


yUNE. 

Has  queen-like  June  cast  jewels  on  the  earth, 

And  turned  them  into  flowers  and  brilliant  birds  ? 
Or  whence  have  come  these  gem-like  charms  whose 
birth 
Brings  eloquence  and  joy  too  grand  foi  words  ? 

Ernest  Warburton  Shurtleff. 


A  DAY  IN  JUNE.  33 


ROSE  SONG. 


The  bloom  is  falling  from  the  may, 
The  rose,  the  rose  is  on  the  way ! 
Now  let  us  think  before  she  blows 
What  we  may  do  to  greet  the  rose. 

We'll  lie  beneath  the  aspen  trees 

And  gaze  upon  her  all  day  long. 
And  gaze  and  gaze,  but  never  speak 
What  may  not  be  uplift  in  song. 

And  all  our  song  shall  be  of  love, 
The  fainter  for  her  passing  breath. 

But,  O  take  heed  !     Before  the  rose 
We  must  not  breathe  a  word  of  death. 

Mrs.  Emily  [Davis]  Pfeiffer. 


A   DAY  IN  JUNE. 

"  Out  of  Heaven  from  God.'" 

Come  down  amongst  us  and  men  know  it  not ! 

They  call  it  lightly^  fine  summer's  day. 
But  breathing  Nature  knows  it ;  not  one  spot 

But  trembles  at  the  knowledge.     Every  spray 
From  garden  unto  forest  at  its  lot 

Smiles  in  the  stillness,  and  the  veil  away 
'Twixt  earth  and  sky,  earth's  confines  are  forgot ; 

Praise  shakes  the  world,  too  near  its  God  to  pray. 

Mrs.  Christina  Catharine  [Fraser-Tytler]  Liddell. 


34  A  SONG   OF  SUMMER. 

A    SONG   OF  SUMMER. 

Laden  with  gifts  of  your  giving, 

0  summer  of  June  ! 

With  the  rapturous  idyl  of  living 

In  perfect  attune  ; 

With  the  sweetness  of  eve  when  it  closes 

A  day  of  delight; 

With  the  tremulous  breath  of  the  roses 

Entrancing  the  night ; 

With  the  glow  of  your  cardinal  flowers 

On  lips  that  had  paled ; 

And  the  coolness  of  silvery  showers 

For  hands  that  had  failed  ; 

With  geraniums  vivid  with  fire 

To  wear  on  my  breast, 

Where  the  lilies  had  paled  with  desire 

To  bring  to  me  rest ; 

With  the  joy  that  was  born  of  your  brightness 

Still  thrilling  my  soul, 

And  a  heart  whose  bewildering  lightness 

1  cannot  control ; 

Ah  !  now  that  your  idyl  of  living 

Is  over  too  soon, 

What  gifts  can  compare  with  your  giving 

O  summer  of  June  ? 

Then  a  wraith  of  the  winter  said  gently, 
"  I  will  not  deceive  ; 
Of  the  brightness  j'ou  prize  so  intently 
No  trace  shall  I  leave. 


LOVE  IN  SUMMERTIME.  35 

The  glow  of  the  cardinal  flowers 

Shall  pass  from  the  field, 

And  the  softness  of  silvery  showers 

To  ice  be  congealed  ; 

The  geraniums  vivid  with  fire 

Shall  curl  at  the  heart ; 

And  the  lily  forget  the  desire 

Its  peace  to  impart ; 

Pale  as  the  rose  that  is  dying, 

Your  whitening  cheek ; 

Faint  as  its  tremulous  sighing, 

Words  you  would  speak  ; 

For  a  joy  that  was  born  of  their  brightness 

I  tremble  with  you, 

When  the  gleam  and  the  glory  and  lightness 

Shall  pass  with  the  dew. 

Ah  !  now  that  your  idyl  of  living 

Is  over  so  soon, 

What  gifts  will  be  left  of  your  giving, 

O  summer  of  June  ?  " 

Mrs.  Alice  Marland  [Wellington]  Rollins. 


LOVE  IN  SUMMERTIME. 

The  earth,  late  choked  with  showers, 

Is  now  arrayed  in  green  ; 
Her  bosom  springs  with  flowers. 

The  air  dissolves  her  teen ; 


IN  THE  SUMMEKTJME. 

The  heavens  laugh  at  her  glory, 
Yet  bide  I,  sad  and  sorry ! 

The  woods  are  decked  with  leaves. 

And  trees  are  clothed  gay, 
And  Flora,  crowned  with  sheaves. 

With  oaken  boughs  doth  play ; 
Where  I  am  clad  in  black. 

The  token  of  my  wrack. 

The  birds  upon  the  trees 

Do  sing  with  pleasant  voices, 
And  chant  in  their  degrees 

Their  loves  and  lucky  choices; 
When  I,  whilst  they  are  singing 

With  sighs  my  arms  am  wringing. 

The  thrushes  seek  the  shade, 

And  I  my  fatal  grave  ; 
Their  flight  to  heaven  is  made, 

My  walk  on  earth  I  have ; 
They  free,  I  thrall ;  they  jolly, 

I  sad  and  pensive  wholly. 

Thomas  Lodge. 


IN  THE  SUMMERTIME. 

So  beautiful  the  day  had  been, 

I  scarce  could  deem  that  it  would  end ; 

To  me  it  was  a  constant  friend, 
A  presence  rather  felt  tlian  seen. 


THE  BOBOLINK.  3/ 

I  watched  the  swallow  in  its  flight, 
I  watched  the  bounding  river's  flow, 
And  caught  the  sun's  delicious  glow 

Through  all  the  sleepless  hours  of  light. 

A  gentle  tremor  of  the  air 

Swept  the  treetops  with  murmurous  sound ; 

While  stretched  upon  the  heathery  ground 
I  kissed  my  Mother's  purple  hair. 

And  happy  memories  of  the  years 
Came  wafted  on  the  summer  breeze 
(Like  perfumes  borne  from  far-off  seas) 

Till  pain  was  softened  into  tears. 

It  was  a  bliss  to  breathe,  to  move. 

All  thoughts  of  sorrow  fled  away  ; 

Joy  was  my  visitor  that  day, 
And  with  him  hand  in  hand  came  Love, 

John  Dennis. 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

.  .  .  June's  bridesman,  poet  o'  the  year, 

Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink,  is  here  ; 

Half-hid  in  tip-top  apple  blooms  he  swings. 

Or  climbs  against  the  breeze  with  quiverin'  wings, 

Or,  givin'  way  to't  in  a  mock  despair, 

Runs  down,  a  brook  o'  laughter,  thru  the  air. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 
T/ic  Biglow  Papers. 


38  JUNE. 

JUNE. 

I  GA^ED  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round, 
And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound. 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make. 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

There  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love  tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent. 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Misfht  know  no  sadder  siirht  nor  sound. 


JiV  JUNE.  39 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me. 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow  ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep. 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been. 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene  ; 
Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills 

Is,  that  his  grave  is  green ; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


IN  JUNE. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing. 
So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see  ; 

So  blithe  and  gay  the  humming-bird  a-going 
From  flower  to  flower,  a-hunting  with  the  bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes. 
The  calling,  cooing,  wooing,  everywhere ; 


40  jy  JUNE. 

So  sweet  the  waters'  song  through  reeds  and  rushes, 
The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  from  off  the  fields  of  clover. 
The  west  wind  blowing,  blowing  up  the  hill ; 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  with  news  of  some  one's  lover, 
Fleet  footsteps,  singing  nearer,  nearer  still. 

So  near,  so  near,  now  listen,  listen,  thrushes ; 

Now  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and  let  me  hear ; 
And,  water,  hush  your  song  through  reeds  and  rushes, 

That  I  may  know  whose  lover  cometh  near. 

So  loud,  so  loud  the  thrushes  kept  their  calling, 
Plover  or  blackbird  never  heeding  me  ; 

So  loud  the  millstream  too  kept  fretting,  falling. 
O'er  bar  and  bank  in  brawling,  boisterous  glee. 

So  loud,  so  loud ;  yet  blackbird,  thrush,  nor  plover, 
Nor  noisy  millstream,  in  its  fret  and  fall. 

Could  drown  the  voice,  the  low  voice  of  my  lover, 
My  lover  calling  through  the  thrushes'  call. 

"  Come  down,  come  down  !  "  he  called,  and  straight 
the  thrushes 
From   mate    to   mate    sang   all  at  once,  "  Come 
down ! " 
And  while   the  water  laughed   through   reeds  and 
rushes. 
The  blackbird  chirped,  the  plover  piped,  "  Come 
down ! " 


THE  SOUTH  WINDS  IN  JUNE.  4 1 

Then  down  and  off,  and  through  the  fields  of  clover, 
I  followed,  followed  at  my  lover's  call ; 

Listening  no  more  to  blackbird,  thrush,  or  plover, 
I'he  water's  laugh,  the  millstream's  fret  and  fall. 

Nora  Perry. 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUTH  WINDS  IN  JUNE. 

O  FRESH,  how  fresh  and  fair 
Through  the  crystal  gulfs  of  air 
The  fairy  south  wind  floateth  on  her  subtle  wings  of 
balm ! 
And  the  green  earth  lapped  in  bliss. 
To  the  magic  of  her  kiss 
Seems  yearning  upward  fondly  through  the  golden- 
crested  calm ! 

From  the  distant  tropic  strand. 
Where  the  billows,  bright  and  bland, 
Go  creeping,  curling  round  the   palms  with   sweet 
faint  undertune, 
From  its  fields  of  purpling  flowers 
Still  wet  with  fragrant  showers, 
The  happy  south  wind,  lingering,  sweeps  the  royal 
blooms  of  June. 

All  heavenly  fancies  rise 
On  the  perfume  of  her  sighs. 
Which  steep  the  inmost  spirit  in  a  languor  rare  and 
fine^ 


42  THE  SOUTH  WINDS  JX  JUNE. 

And  a  peace,  more  pure  than  slcej^'s 
Unto  dim,  half-conscious  deeps, 
Transports  me,  killed  and  dreaming,  on  its  twilight 
tides  divine. 

Those  dreams,  ah,  me !  the  splendor. 
So  mystical  and  tender. 
Wherewith  like  soft  heat  lightnings  they  gird  their 
meaning  round, 
And  those  waters,  calling,  calling, 
With  a  nameless  charm  enthralling. 
Like  the  ghost  of  music  melting  on  a  rainbow  spray 
of  sound! 

Touch,  touch  me  not,  nor  wake  me, 
Lest  grosser  thoughts  o'ertake  me, 
From  earth  receding  faintly  with  her  dreary  din  and 
jars ; 
What  viewless  arms  caress  me  ? 
What  whispered  voices  bless  me. 
With  welcomes  dropping   dew-like  from  the  weird 
and  wondrous  stars  ? 

Alas  !  dim,  dim  and  dimmer 
Grows  the  preternatural  glimmer 
Of  that  trance  the  south  wind  brought  me  on  her 
subtle  wings  of  balm. 
For  behold  !  its  spirit  fiieth. 
And  its  fairy  murmur  dieth, 
And  the  silence  closing  round  me  is  a  dull  and  soul- 
less calm ! 

Paul  Hamilton  IIayne. 


NOW  IS   THE  NIGH  TIDE   OF  THE    YEAR.      43 

JUNE. 

Fair  month  of  roses  !     Who  would  sing  her  praise, 
One  says,  should  come  direct  from  banqueting 
On  honey  from  Hymettus,  that  he  bring 

Fit  flavor  to  the  strain  his  lip  essays. 

As  if,  around  these  exquisite,  rare  days 

Of  richest  June,  for  him  who  fain  would  sing 
Her  loveliness,  such  sweetness  did  not  cling 

As  Hybla  or  Hymettus  scarce  could  raise 

For  all  their  storied  bees !     And  yet  in  vain, 
Poet,  your  verse  :  extol  her  as  you  will. 
One  perfect  rose  her  praises  shall  distil 

More  than  all  song,  though  Sappho  lead  the  strain. 
Forbear,  then ;  since,  for  any  tribute  fit. 
Her  own  rare  lips  alone  can  utter  it. 

Mrs.  Caroline  Atherton  [Briggs]  Mason. 


NOW  IS   THE  HIGH  TIDE   OF  THE    YEAR. 

Now  is  the  high  tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer. 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay ; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green  ; 


44  MORNING  GLORIES. 

We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
\\'e  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky. 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack  ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing : 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer. 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing ! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 
The  Vision  of  Sir  Lau)tfal. 


MORNING   GLORIES. 

Delicate  vases  of  fairest  hue. 

Daintily  set  for  the  early  dew, 

That  the  dying  stars  their  grace  may  view. 

Pink  of  the  conch-shell,  blue  of  the  sea, 
Tyrian  purple  with  pearl  flecked  free, 
Tint  their  Etruscan  symmetry. 

Hebe  might  covet  the  sheeny  cup 
On  its  heart-shaped  salver  offered  up, 
Where  the  queenly  mornings  their  nectar  sup. 


VILLANELLE.  45 

O  prodigal  beauty  for  opening  eyes  ! 
The  tendriled  vine  with  its  glad  surprise 
Of  bloom  upturned  to  the  dawn-flushed  skies  ! 
Mrs.  Louisa  Parsons  [Stone]  Hopkins. 


VILLANELLE. 

When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose 
And  the  air  is  faint  and  fain  with  her  breath, 
Then  the  Earth  hath  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes. 

The  Earth  hath  rest  and  forgetteth  her  woes 

As  she  watcheth  the  cradle  of  Love  and  Death, 
When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose. 

O  Love  and  Death,  who  are  counted  for  foes. 

She  sees  you  twins  of.  one  mind  and  faith,  — 
The  Earth  at  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes. 

You  are  twins  to  the  mother  who  sees  and  knows  ; 
"  Let  them  strive  and  thrive  together,"  she  saith, 
When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose. 

They  strive,  and  Love  his  brother  out-grows, 

But  for  strength  and  beauty  he  travaileth 
On  the  Earth  at  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes. 

And  still  when  his  passionate  heart  o'erflows 

Death  winds  about  him  a  bridal  wreath. 
As  the  brow  of  June  is  crov/ned  by  the  rose  ! 


46  SUMMER. 

So  the  bonds  of  Death  true  lovers  enclose, 

For  Love  and  Death  are  as  sword  and  sheath, 
When  tlie  Earth  hath  rest  from  lier  long  birtli-throes. 

They  are  sword  and  sheath,  they  are  Life  and  it's 
shows, 
Which  lovers  have  grace  to  see  beneath, 
When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose 
And  the  Earth  hath  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes. 
Mrs.  Emily  [Uavis]  Pfkh-fer. 


SUMMER. 

The  oak's  slow-opening  leaf,  of  deepening  hue. 

Bespeaks  the  power  of  summer  once  again ; 
While  many  a  flower  unfolds  its  charms  to  view. 

To  glad  the  entrance  of  his  sultry  reign. 
Where  peep  the  gaping,  speckled  cuckoo-flowers. 

Sweet  is  each  rural  scene  she  brings  to  pass  y 
Prizes  to  rambling  schoolboys'  vacant  hours. 

Tracking  wild  searches  through  the  meadow  grass ; 
The  meadow-sweet  taunts  high  its  showy  wreath. 
And  sweet  the  quaking  grasses  hid  beneath. 

Ah,  barred  from  all  that  sweetens  life  below, 
Another  summer  still  my  eyes  can  see 

Freed  from  this  scorn  and  jDilgrimage  of  woe. 
To  share  the  seasons  of  eternity. 

John  Clare. 


THE  DYING  SYCAMORES.  AJ 

THE  DYING   SYCAMORES. 

A  BEAUTY  like  young  womanhood's 

Upon  the  green  earth  lies, 
And  June's  sweet  smile  hath  waked  again 

All  summer's  harmonies. 

The  insects  hum  their  dreamy  song, 

The  trees  their  honors  wear, 
And  languid  with  its  perfume  spoils 

Sighs  the  voluptuous  air. 

A  gorgeous  wealth  of  leaf  and  bloom 

Enchants  the  dazzled  sight ; 
And  over  earth  and  sky  there  smiles 

A  presence  of  delight. 

From  yon  sad,  dying  sycamores, 

Alone  a  shadow  falls, 
As  from  the  ghostly  form  of  death 

In  Egypt's  banquet  halls. 

Against  the  soft  blue  sky  they  stand, 

Their  naked  limbs  outspread. 
And  to  the  throbbing  life  around 

They  murmur  of  the  dead. 

Spring,  with  her  soft  and  odorous  breath, 

Hath  sighed  o'er  them  in  vain ; 
For  sun,  or  dew,  or  summer  shower, 

They  ne'er  will  bloom  again. 


48  JUNE  LONGINGS. 

0  stately  monarchs  of  the  wood, 
What  blight  hath  o'er  ye  passed  ? 

What  canker  wastes  your  noble  hearts  ? 
^^'hat  spell  is  on  ye  cast  ? 

1  watch  ye  where  a  thousand  forms 
With  life  and  beauty  glow, 

Till  half  I  deem  that  on  ye  lies 
Some  weight  of  human  woe  ! 

Some  woe  like  that  of  human  hearts, 

In  this  fair  world  of  ours, 
That  wither  in  their  summer  sun, 

O  dying  Sycamores. 

Mrs.  Anne  Charlotte  [Lynch]  Botta. 


JUNE  LONGINGS. 

Lo,  all  about  the  lofty  blue  are  blown 

Light  vapors  white,  like  thistle  down. 

That  from  their  softened  silver  heaps  opaque 

Scatter  delicate  flake  by  flake, 

Upon  the  wide  loom  of  the  heavens  weaving 

Forms  of  fancies  past  believing. 

And,  with  fantastic  show  of  mute  despair. 

As  for  some  sweet  hope  hurt  beyond  repair, 

Melt  in  the  silent  voids  of  sunny  air. 

All  day  the  cooing  brooklet  runs  in  tune  : 
Half  sunk  i'  the  blue,  the  powdery. moon 


THE  DANDELIONS.  49 

Shows  whitely.     Hark,  the  bobolink's  note  !     I  hear 

it, 
Far  and  faint  as  a  fairy  spirit ! 

Yet  all  these  pass,  and  as  some  blithe  bird,  winging. 
Leaves  a  heartache  for  his  singing, 
A  frustrate  passion  haunts  me  evermore 
For  that  which  closest  dwells  to  beauty's  core. 
O  Love,  canst  thou  this  heart  of  hope  restore  ? 

George  Parsons  Lathrop. 


THE  DANDELIONS. 

Upon  a  showery  night  and  still, 

Without  a  sound  of  warning, 
A  trooper  band  surprised  the  hill, 

And  held  it  in  the  morning. 
We  were  not  waked  by  bugle-notes, 

No  cheer  our  dreams  invaded, 
And  yet,  at  dawn,  their  yellow  coats 

On  the  green  slopes  paraded. 

We  careless  folk  the  deed  forgot ; 

Till,  one  day,  idly  walking, 
W^e  marked  upon  the  selfsame  spot 

A  crowd  of  veterans  talking. 
They  shook  their  trembling  heads  and  grey 

With  pride  and  noiseless  laughter ; 
When,  well-a-day  !  they  blew  away. 

And  ne'er  were  heard  of  after ! 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 


50  BUMnLE-BRE. 

BUMBLE-DEE. 

As  I  lay  yonder  in  tall  grass 

A  drunken  bumble-bee  went  past 

Delirious  with  honey  toddy. 

The  golden  sash  about  his  body 

Could  scarce  keep  in  his  swollen  belly 

Distent  with  honeysuckle  jelly. 

Rose  liquor  and  the  sweet-pea  wine 

Had  filled  his  soul  with  song  divine  ; 

Deep  had  he  drunk  the  warm  night  through : 

His  hairy  thighs  were  wet  with  dew. 

Full  many  an  antic  he  had  played 

While    the    world   went    round  through    sleep  and 

shade. 
Oft  had  he  lit  with  thirsty  lip 
Some  flower-cup's  nectared  sweets  to  sip, 
When  on  smooth  petals  he  would  slip 
Or  over  tangled  stamens  trip, 
And  headlong  in  the  pollen  rolled, 
Crawl  out  quite  dusted  o'er  with  gold. 
Or  else  his  heavy  feet  would  stumble 
Against  some  bud  and  down  he'd  tumble 
Amongst  the  grass ;  there  lie  and  grumble 
In  low,  soft  bass,  —  poor  maudlin  bumble  ! 
With  tipsy  hum  on  sleepy  wing 
He  buzzed  a  glee,  —  a  bacchic  thing 
Which,  wandering  strangely  in  the  moon, 
He  learned  from  grigs  that  sing  in  June, 
Unknown  to  sober  bees  who  dwell 
Through  the  dark  hours  in  waxen  cell. 


JUNE.  S  r 

When  south  wind  floated  him  away 
The  music  of  the  summer  day- 
Lost  something :  sure  it  was  a  pain 
To  miss  that  dainty  starlight  strain. 

Henry  Augustin  Beers. 


JUNE. 

Month  of  my  heart !  with  what  a  growth  of  green 

Thou  comest  to  the  garland  of  the  year ! 
What  snows  have  sifted,  storms  have  swept  between 

The  June  long  vanished  and  the  June  now  here  ! 
What  wealth  of  faded  foliage  beneath 

Thy  feet,  forgotten,  lies  in  earth  entombed, 
Sweet  flowers  on  which  the  dying  year  did  breathe, 

Half-opened  petals,  buds  that  never  bloomed ! 

And  from  the  ashes  of  the  buried  year 

Spring,  phoenix-like,  the  glories  of  to-day ; 
The  vernal  wrappings  that  thy  forests  wear, 

The  star-strewn  emerald  of  thy  carpet  gay. 
For  thee  alone  the  opening  roses  blush, 

And  breathe  their  fragrance  out  in  many  a  sigh ; 
The  listless  air  grows  heavy  with  the  hush, 

And  wooing  zephyrs  faint  in  ecstasy. 

I  hail  thy  coming  ;  and  a  gladder  song 
Goes  up  from  every  warbler  of  the  plain ; 

For  greener  trees  and  bluer  skies  belong 
To  thee  than  any  follower  in  thy  train. 


S2  SOA'G   OF   THE   GLOAMING. 

The  rustling  of  thy  leafy  robes  I  heard 
In  the  soft  music  of  the  April  showers, 

And  caught  the  far-off  trill  of  coming  bird, 

And  breathed  the  fragrance  of  thine  unborn  flowers. 

And  thou  art  here  !     I  feel  it  in  the  lull 

That  steals  o'er  Nature's  bounding  pulse  to-day  ; 
The  spring  retires  and  leaves  the  summer  full 

Of  brimming  beauty,  dauntless  of  decay. 
I  hear  thy  presence  in  the  whispering  air, 

The  lifting  leaf,  the  honey-bee's  low  tune, 
The  drowsy  hum  of  insects  everywhere  ; 

The  world  is  full  of  thee,  O  peerless  June ! 

Mrs.  Mary  Elizabeth  [Erwin]  Hobbs. 


SONG   OF  THE   GLOAMING. 

The  toad  has  the  road,  the  cricket  sings, 
The  hea\y  beetle  spreads  its  wings  : 
The  bat  is  the  rover. 
No  bee  on  the  clover, 
The  day  is  over, 
And  night  has  come. 

The  brake  is  awake,  the  grass  aglow, 
The  star  above,  the  fly  below : 
The  bat  is  the  rover, 
No  bee  on  the  clover. 
The  day  is  over, 
And  night  has  come. 


A  SUMMER  MOON.  53 

The  stream  lies  a-dream,  the  low  winds  tune, 
'Tis  vespers  at  the  shrine  of  June  : 
The  bat  is  the  rover, 
No  bee  on  the  clover, 
The  day  is  over. 
And  night  has  come  : 
Now  night  has  come. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 

In  The  Century  Magazine. 


A   SUMMER  MOON. 

Queen-moon  of  this  enchanted  summer  night, 
One  virgin  slave  companioning  thee,  —  I  lie 
Vacant  to  thy  possession  as  this  sky 
Conquered  and  calmed  by  thy  rejoicing  might ; 
Swim   down  through  my  heart's    deep,  thou    dewy- 
bright 
Wanderer  of  heaven,  till  thought  must  faint  and 

die, 
And  I  am  made  all  thine  inseparably, 
Resolve  into  the  dream  of  thy  delight. 
Ah,  no !  the  place  is  common  for  her  feet. 
Not  here,  not  here,  —  beyond  the  amber  mist. 
And  breaths  of  dusky  pine,  and  shining  lawn. 
And  unstirred  lake,  and  gleaming  belts  of  wheat, 
She  comes  upon  her  Latmos,  and  has  kissed 
The  sidelong  face  of  blind  Endymion. 

Edward  Dowden. 


54  A  yr.vE  evening. 

A    JUNE  EVENING. 

A  GF.NTi.E  breeze  blows  softly  from  the  west 
And  murmurs  round  each  treetop-cradled  nest ; 

Forth  steals  the  dewy  perfume  of  the  roses 
In  welcome  wafted  to  the  garden's  guest. 

Within  its  narrow  bounds  I  stand  alone  ; 
The  hazy  glamour  of  the  moonbeams  thrown 

Upon  the  sward,  half  hides  and  half  discloses 
Shy  blossoms  by  the  loving  zephyrs  blown. 

A  song  bird  winging  toward  an  elm  tree's  height, 
Pauses  a  moment,  in  its  upward  flight, 

To  hear  the  crickets  from  their  grassy  cover 
Fling  their  shrill  songs  adown  the  depths  of  night. 

A  moth  flits  by  on  pinions  light  and  free 
To  roam  at  will  till  morn  shall  gild  the  lea ; 

Each  floweret  eagerly  awaits  her  lover, 
A  roving  creature  of  the  night  is  he  ! 

The  silver  radiance  floats  o'er  field  and  hill. 

In  peace  the  bourgeoning  wold  lies,  hushed  and  still, 

And  yet,  while  gazing  on  the  Junetide  glory, 
My  eyes  with  tears  of  longing  slowly  fill. 

Awakening  sorrow  brings  its  weight  of  woe 
When  summer  comes  with  all  her  golden  glow. 
For  in  my  heart  upsprings  an  olden  story,  — 
The  memory  of  a  June  of  long  ago. 

Florence  Scollard  Brow^n. 


THE  SWEET  JUNE  NIGHT.  55 

THE  SWEET  JUNE  NIGHT. 

The  long  day  wanes,   the  broad  fields  fade ;    the 

night, 
The  sweet  June  night,  is  like  a  curtain  drawn. 
The  dark  lanes  know  no  faintest  sound,  and  white 
The   pallid   hawthorn    lights   the    smooth-pleached 

lawn. 
The  scented  earth  drinks  from  the  silent  skies 
Soft  dews,  more  sweet  than  softest  harmonies. 

There  is  no  stir  nor  breath  of  air,  the  plains 

Lie  slumbering  in  the  close  embrace  of  night. 

Only  the  rustling  land-rail's  note  complains ; 

The  children's  casement  shows  the  half-veiled  light, 

Only  beneath  the  solemn  elm  trees  tall 

The  fountain  seems  to  fall  and  cease  to  fall. 

No  change  will  come,  nor  any  sound  be  made 

Through  the  still  hours  which  shall  precede  the  day; 

Only  the  bright-eyed  stars  will  slowly  fade. 

And  a  thin  vapor  rise  up  cold  and  grey. 

Then  a  soft  breeze  will  whisper  fresh  and  cold. 

And  up  the  swift  sun  hurries  red  as  gold. 

Sweet  summer  night,  than  summer  days  more  fair, 
Safe  haven  of  the  weary  and  forlorn, 
Splendid  the  gifts  the  luminous  noontides  bear, 
Lovely  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn  ; 
But  thou  with  softest  touch  transfigurest 
This  toil-worn  earth  into  a  haven  of  rest, 

Lewis  Morris. 


56  A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

A   SUMMER    TWILIGHT. 

It  is  a  summer  gloaming,  balmy-sweet, 

A  gloaming  brightened  by  an  infant  moon, 
Fraught  with  the  fairest  light  of  middle  June ; 

The  lonely  garden  echoes  to  my  feet, 

And  hark !  O  hear  I  not  the  gentle  dews, 
Fretting  the  silent  forest  in  his  sleep  ? 
Or  does  the  stir  of  housing  insects  creep 

Thus  faintly  on  mine  ear  ?     Day's  many  hues 

Waned  with  the  paling  light  and  are  no  more, 
And  none  but  drowsy  pinions  beat  the  air. 

The  bat  is  hunting  softly  by  my  door, 

And,  noiseless  as  the  snowflake,  leaves  his  lair, 
O'er  the  still  copses  flitting  here  and  there, 

Wheeling  the  selfsame  circuit  o'er  and  o'er. 

Charles  Tennyson-Turner. 


A   NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

Calm  the  June  evening  was,  no  sign  of  strife 

The  clear  sky  showed,  no  storm  grew  round  the  sun, 

Unhappy  that  his  day  of  bliss  was  done  ; 

Dumb  was  the  sea,  and  if  the  beechwood  stirred, 

'Twas  with  the  nestling  of  the  grey-winged  bird 

Midst  its  thick  leaves ;  and  though  the  nightingale 

Her  ancient,  hapless  sorrow  must  bewail. 

No  more  of  woe  there  seemed  in  her  song 

Than  such  as  doth  to  lovers'  words  belong, 

Because  their  love  is  still  unsatisfied. 


IN  THE   CLOVER.  5/ 


So  passed  the  night,  the  moon  arose  and  grew, 
From  off  the  sea  a  little  west  wind  blew, 
Rustling  the  garden  leaves  like  sudden  rain ; 
And  ere  the  moon  had  'gun  to  fall  again 
The  wind  grew  cold,  a  change  was  in  the  sky, 
And  in  deep  silence  did  the  day  draw  nigh. 

Through  the  half-opened  casements  now  there  blew 
A  sweet  fresh  air,  that  of  the  flowers  and  sea 
Mingled  together,  smelt  deliciously. 
And  from  the  unseen  sun  the  spreading  light 
Began  to  make  the  fair  June  blossoms  bright. 

William  Morris. 
The  Earthly  Paradise  {OgUr  the  Dane). 


IN  THE   CLOVER. 

Soft  is  the  rosy  flush  around  me ; 

Deep  in  the  clover  here  I  lie ; 
Under,  the  arms  of  our  mother  Nature, 

Over,  the  infinite  arch  of  sky. 

Trees  are  tossing  their  branches  around  me, 
Shadows  are  stretching  the  fields  along ; 

Over  the  heads  of  the  waving  barley 
Comes  the  sound  of  the  reapers'  song. 

Thrush  and  bluebird  soar  above  me, 
Robin  and  jay  peer  in  at  my  bower, 


58  VINE  LIFE. 

And  a  brown  bumble-bee,  life  all  before  him, 
Sits  all  alert  on  a  cardinal  flower. 

Far  away  stretch  the  fields  of  clover, 
Brown  in  the  shadow,  red  in  the  sun ; 

Oat-fields  toss  in  the  billowy  distance  ; 

There's  a  fringe  of  willows  where  waters  run. 

Labor  calls  in  the  sharp  scythe  swinging 
Down  in  the  depths  of  the  meadow-glooms ; 

But  lotus  and  balm  and  sweet  nepenthe 
Are  all  in  the  breath  of  the  clover  blooms. 

Mrs.  Hattie  [Tyng]  Griswold. 


VINE  LIFE. 

In  the  dead  barrenness  of  wintertime 

I  marked  this  woodbine  latticing  the  wall. 

And  said,  "  How  pleasantly  in  summer's  prime 
This  vine  shall  beautify  and  curtain  all !  " 

Ere  yet  in  leafless  elms  the  robins  sung, 

Nature  touched  tenderly  the  network  screen, 

And  with  her  silent  fingers  slowly  strung 
The  limber  stems  with  gems  of  living  green. 

Yet  some  remained  unbudded.     Day  by  day 
I  watched,  —  but  not  late  April's  gracious  air, 


VINE  LIFE.  59 

Nor  yet  the  warmer  smiles  of  perfect  May, 

Brought  promise  to  the  tendrils  brown  and  bare. 

Whereat  I  grieved.     "  The  winter  was  unkind," 
I  said,  "  to  shatter  thus  my  summer  dream ; 

How  shall  these  dry  limbs  scatter  shade,  or  blind 
My  window  from  the  sultry  August  beam  ?  " 

Yet  see  how  June  my  faithless  murmuring  mocks ! 
Lo !   those   new  vigorous   shoots,   all  fresh  with 
leaves. 
Clasp  with   their  clinging   hands    these    dry,   dead 
stalks, 
And  clamber  up,  rejoicing,  to  the  eaves, 

Till  the  brown  skeleton  is  all  aleaf, 

Fluttering    and   rain-fresh   through    its    tendriled 
length ; 
And  that  which  once  was  death  and  bitter  grief. 

Becomes  at  once  its  glory  and  its  strength. 

Fettered  and  cramped  by  no  depending  cares. 
Up  their  strange  trellis  the  long  garlands  go. 

As  went  the  angels  up  the  shining  stairs 
Of  Jacob's  vision  in  the  long  ago. 

When  shall  we  learn  to  read  this  life  aright? 

When  to  our  souls  will  the  sweet  grace  be  given 
To  make  our  disappointment  and  our  blight 

But  ladder-rounds  to  lift  us  nearer  heaven  ? 

Mrs.  Elizaueth  Ann  [Chase]  [Akers]  Allen. 


6o  WOOING. 


WOOING. 


Sunshine  over  the  meadows  wide 

Where  tlie  bees  hummed  in  the  clover, 
And  sunsliine  filling  the  lily  cups 

Till  every  one  brimmed  over. 
Sunshine  over  the  hazy  hills, 

And  over  the  dimpling  river, 
And  I  wished  the  sun  and  the  summer  day 

Might  shine  and  last  forever. 

We  turned  aside  in  the  river  path, 

The  highway  haunts  forsaking, 
For  the  quiet  of  the  willowed  nooks 

Seemed  better  for  our  love-making. 
My  love  was  silent,  and  I  was  shy. 

And  my  thoughts  were  each  a  rover, 
On  that  sweetest  of  all  summer  days 

That  ever  the  sun  shone  over. 

We  heard  the  birds  in  the  willows  green 

As  they  planned  their  little  dwelling. 
And  what  the  robin  sang  to  his  mate 

Was  too  sweet  for  my  poor  words'  telling. 
It  seemed,  as  we  walked  down  the  river  bank, 

My  love  and  I  together, 
That  at  last  the  world  was  in  perfect  tune 

In  the  glad,  bright  summer  weather. 

I  can  not  tell  what  I  said  to  her, 
As  we  came  to  the  field  of  clover; 


HEAVEN,   O  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE.        6 1 

I  only  know  that  the  robin  merrily  sang 

His  sweetest  of  sweet  songs  over. 
And  though  I  know  not  the  words  she  said, 

Nor  whether  she  spoke  at  all, 
That  day  I  count  among  summer  days 

As  the  sweetest  one  of  all. 

Eben  Eugene  Rexford. 


HE  A  VEN,   O  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE. 

Now  summer  finds  her  perfect  prime  ! 

Sweet  blows  the  wind  from  western  calms ; 
On  every  bower  red  roses  climb  ; 

The  meadows  sleep  in  mingled  balms. 
Nor  stream,  nor  bank  the  wayside  by, 

But  lilies  float  and  daisies  throng. 
Nor  space  of  blue  and  sunny  sky 

That  is  not  cleft  with  soaring  song. 
O  flowery  morns,  O  tuneful  eves. 

Fly  swift !  my  soul  ye  cannot  fill ! 
Bring  the  ripe  fruit,  the  garnered  sheaves, 

The  drifting  snows  on  plain  and  hill, 
Alike,  to  me,  fall  frosts  and  dews  ; 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 

Warm  hands  to-day  are  clasped  in  mine ; 

Fond  hearts  my  mirth  or  mourning  share  ; 
And,  over  hope's  horizon  line. 

The  future  dawns,  serenely  fair. 


62         HEAVEN,   O  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE. 

Yet  still,  though  fervent  vow  ctenics, 

I  know  the  rapture  will  not  stay ; 
Some  wind  of  grief  or  doubt  will  rise 

And  turn  my  rosy  sky  to  grey. 
I  shall  awake  in  rainy  morn, 

To  find  my  hearth  left  lone  and  drear ; 
Thus,  half  in  sadness,  half  in  scorn, 

I  let  my  life  burn  on  as  clear 
Though  friends  grow  cold  or  fond  love  woes ; 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose ! 

In  golden  hours  the  angel  Peace 

Comes  down  and  broods  me  with  her  wings 
I  gain  from  sorrow  sweet  release ; 

I  mate  me  with  divinest  things ; 
When  shapes  of  guilt  and  gloom  arise 

And  far  the  radiant  angel  flees, 
My  song  is  lost  in  mournful  sighs, 

My  wine  of  triumph  left  but  lees. 
In  vain  for  me  her  pinions  shine, 

And  pure,  celestial  days  begin ; 
Earth's  passion-flowers  I  still  must  twine, 

Nor  braid  one  beauteous  lily  in. 
Ah  !  is  it  good  or  ill  I  choose  ? 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 

So  wait  I.     Every  day  that  dies 

With  flush  and  fragrance  born  of  June, 

I  know  shall  more  resplendent  rise 

Where  summer  needs  nor  sun  nor  moon. 


A   SUMMER   DAY  BY  THE  SEA.  6^ 

And  every  bud,  on  love's  low  tree, 

Whose  mocking  crimson  flames  and  falls, 
In  fullest  flower  I  yet  shall  see 

High  blooming  by  the  jasper  walls. 
Nay,  every  sin  that  dims  my  days, 

And  wild  regrets  that  veil  the  sun, 
Shall  fade  before  those  dazzling  rays, 

And  my  long  glory  be  begun  1 
Let  the  years  come  to  bless  or  bruise  ; 
Thy  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  shall  not  lose  ! 

Edna  Dean  Proctor. 


A   SUMMER  DAY  BY  THE  SEA. 

The  sun  is  set ;  and  in  his  latest  beams 
Yon  little  cloud  of  ashen  grey  and  gold, 
Slowly  upon  the  amber  air  unrolled, 

The  falling  mantle  of  the  Prophet  seems. 

From  the  dim  headlands  many  a  lighthouse  gleams. 
The  street-lamps  of  the  ocean  ;  and  behold, 
O'erhead  the  banners  of  the  night  unfold ; 

The  day  hath  passed  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

O  summer  day  beside  the  joyous  sea  ! 
O  summer  day  so  wonderful  and  white. 
So  full  of  gladness  and  so  full  of  pain ! 

Forever  and  forever  thou  shalt  be 

To  some  the  gravestone  of  a  dead  delight. 
To  some  the  landmark  of  a  new  domain. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


64  MORNING   GLORY. 


MORNING   GLORY. 

Earth's  awake  'neath  the  laughing  skies, 
After  the  dewy  and  dreamy  night ; 

Riot  of  roses  and  babel  of  birds, 
All  the  world  in  a  whirl  of  delight. 

Roses  smile  in  their  white  content, 
Roses  blush  in  their  crimson  bliss. 

As  the  vagrant  breezes,  wooing  them, 
Ruffle  their  petals  with  careless  kiss. 

Yellow  butterflies  flutter  and  float, 

Jeweled  humming-birds  glitter  and  glow, 

And  scorning  the  ways  of  such  idle  things 
Bees  flit  busily  to  and  fro. 

The  mocking-bird  swells  his  anxious  throat, 

Trying  to  be  ten  birds  in  one ; 
And  the  swallow  screams,  and  circles,  and  darts 

Into  the  azure  to  find  the  sun. 


But  robin  redbreast  builds  his  nest, 

Singing  a  song  of  the  joy  to  come, 
And  the  oriole  trims  his  golden  vest, 

Glad  to  be  back  in  his  last  year's  home. 

Lilies  that  sway  on  their  slender  stalks, 
Morning  glories  that  nod  to  the  breeze. 

Bloom  of  blossoms,  and  joy  of  birds, 
What  in  the  world  is  better  than  these  ? 

Mrs.  Louise  [Chandler]  Moulton. 


JUNE.— SUMMER'S  RETURN.  65 

JUNE. 

An  English  wife,  whose  passage  o'er  the  line 
That  severs  maid  from  matron  leaves  its  trace 
In  wiser  innocence  and  chastened  grace ; 

With  queenly  eyes,  love-loyal,  frank,  benign, 

That  warm  unheating,  and  unglittering  shine  ; 
A  touch  of  cool  bright  color  on  her  face, 
A  shape  that  curves  part  hide  and  part  define  — 

Figures  our  June,  the  summer's  resting-place. 

Promise  is  perfected  without  excess  ; 

The  leaf  fulfilled,  the  flower  not  overblown  ; 
The  beams  of  noontide  in  this  kindly  zone 

Bless  and  burn  not ;  half-tints  of  pink  and  pearl 
Shimmer  from  wildrose-cluster,  woodbine-whorl,  — 
The  wary  woods  are  dim  for  leafiness. 

Henry  Gay  Hewlett. 
An  English  Year. 


SUMMER'S  RETURN. 

Once  more  I  walk  mid  summer  days,  as  one 
Returning  to  the  place  where  first  he  met 
The  face  that  he  till  death  may  not  forget ; 

I  know  the  scent  of  roses  just  begun, 

And  how  at  evening  and  at  morn  the  sun 
Falls  on  the  places  that  remember  yet 
What  feet  last  year  within  their  bounds  were  set, 

And  what  sweet  things  were  said,  and  dreamt,  and 
done  : 


66  A  riCTURE. 

The  sultry  silence  of  the  summer  night 
Recalls  to  me  the  loved  voice  far  away ; 
Oh,  surely  I  shall  see  some  early  day, 

In  places  that  last  year  with  love  were  bright, 
The  face  of  her  I  love  and  hear  the  low 
Sweet,  troubled  music  of  the  voice  I  know, 

Philip  Bourke  Marston. 


A   PICTURE. 

A  DAY  in  June  ;  a  scholar  at  his  books, 

Whose  name  the  world  has  echoed  far  and  wide  ; 

A  tinge  of  sadness  in  a  face  that  looks 
As  though  unsatisfied. 

A  day  in  June  ;  a  fair  and  girlish  face, 
Fresh  as  the  roses  which  she  sits  among. 

Bending,  half  listless,  o'er  a  bit  of  lace, 
With  all  life's  song  unsung. 

A  day  in  June,  rich  with  its  wealth  of  bloom, 
So  full  of  God  one  scarce  need  look  above ; 

Two  sit  together  in  the  scholar's  room, 
And  life  is  only  love. 

Her  cheerful  voice  is  music  to  his  ear ; 

Touch  more  than  magic  has  her  gentle  hand ; 
Her  sunny,  restful  presence  brings  Heaven  near  ; 

Her  love  makes  earth  so  grand. 


A  FOUR   O'CLOCK.  6/ 

A  day  in  June  ;  the  roses  withered  lie ; 

A  painful  stilhiess  o'er  the  room  has  grown; 
There  is  no  charm  in  earth,  or  air,  or  sky ; 

Tlie  scholar  sits  alone. 

Mrs.  Sarah  [Knowles]  Bolton. 


A   FOUR  O'CLOCK. 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go ! 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so ! 
Forever  in  mid-afternoon. 
Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June  ! 
Pour  out  thy  sunshine  on  the  hill, 
The  piny  wood  with  perfume  fill. 
And  breathe  across  the  singing  sea 
Land-scented  breezes,  that  shall  be 
Sweet  as  the  gardens  that  they  pass, 
Where  children  tumble  in  the  grass  ! 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go  ! 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so  ! 
And  long  not  for  thy  blushing  rest 
In  the  soft  bosom  of  the  west. 
But  bid  grey  evening  get  her  back 
With  all  the  stars  upon  her  track! 
Forget  the  dark,  forget  the  dew. 
The  mystery  of  the  midnight  blue, 
And  only  spread  thy  wide  warm  wings 
While  summer  her  enchantment  flings ! 


68  JUNE. 

All,  happy  clay,  refuse  to  go  ! 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so ! 
Forever  let  thy  tender  mist 
Lie  like  dissolving  amethyst 
Deep  in  the  distant  dales,  and  shed 
Thy  mellow  glory  overhead  ! 
Yet  wilt  thou  wander,  —  call  the  thrush, 
And  have  the  wilds  and  waters  hush 
To  hear  his  passion-broken  tune, 
Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June  I 
Mrs.  Harriet  Elizabeth  [Prescott]  Spofford. 


JUNE. 

She  needs  no  teaching ;  no  defect  is  hers ; 

She  stands  in  all  her  beauty  mid  the  trees. 
'Neath  the  tall  pines  her  golden  sunshine  stirs 

And  shifts  and  trembles  with  each  passing  breeze. 
All  the  long  day  upon  the  broad  green  boughs 

Lieth  the  lustre  of  her  lovely  life, 
While  too  much  drugged  with  rapture  to  carouse 

Broods  her  soft  world  of  insect-being  rife. 
So  without  effort  or  perplexing  thought 

She  comes  to  claim  all  homage  as  her  own 
Clad  in  the  richest  garments  Nature  wrought. 

Melting  the  strongest  with  her  magic  zone. 
O  wondrous  June  !  our  lives  should  be  like  thee 
With  such  calm  grace  fulfilling  destiny. 

Susan  Louisa  Higginson. 


SUMMER  SOLSTICE.  69 

SOLSTICE. 

In  the  month  of  June,  when  the  world  is  green, 
When  the  dew  beads  thick  on  the  clover  spray, 
And  the  noons  are  rife  with  the  scent  of  hay, 
And  the  brook  hides  under  a  willow  screen  ; 
When  the  rose  is  queen,  in  Love's  demesne, 
Then,  the  time  is  too  sweet  and  too  light  to  stay: 
Whatever  the  sun  and  the  dial  say, 
This  is  the  shortest  day. 

Edith  Matilda  Thomas. 


SUMMER  SOLSTICE. 

The  daisies  are  nodding  o'er  bending  grass, 
With  bright  eyes  greeting  me  as  I  pass ; 
As  offering  sweets  from  a  billowy  knoll. 
The  buttercup  lifteth  its  golden  bowl ; 
The  feathery  clouds  float  airily  by. 
Flecking  with  silver  the  blue  of  the  sky. 

The  mead  seems  a  sea  of  green  waves  'neath  the 

breeze. 
Lithe  branches  are  swaying  of  verdure-clad  trees. 
The  clover  bloom  perfumes  the  ambient  air, 
And,  bridelike,  all  Nature  seems  blushful  and  fair ; 
The  drowsy  bee  hums  in  the  lily's  clear  bell 
Or  lazily  drifts  to  its  hermit-like  cell. 

Mrs.  Emily  [Thornton]  Charles 


•JO  THE  LONGEST  DA  V. 

THE  LONGEST  DAY. 

Let  us  quit  the  leafy  arbor, 

And  the  torrent  murmurhig  by ; 
For  the  sun  is  in  his  harbor, 

\\'eary  of  the  open  sky. 

Evening  now  unbinds  her  fetters 

Fashioned  by  the  glowing  light; 
All  that  breathe  are  thankful  debtors 

To  the  harbinger  of  night. 

Yet  by  some  grave  thoughts  attended 

Eve  renews  her  calm  career  ; 
For  the  day  that  now  is  ended. 

Is  the  longest  of  the  year. 

Summer  ebbs  ;  each  day  that  follows 

Is  a  reflux  from  on  high, 
Tending  to  the  darksome  hollows 

Where  the  frosts  of  winter  lie. 

He  who  governs  the  creation, 

In  His  providence,  assigned 
Such  a  gradual  declination 

To  the  life  of  human  kind. 

Yet  we  mark  it  not ;  fruits  redden, 

Fresh  flowers  blow,  as  flowers  have  blown, 

And  the  heart  is  loth  to  deaden 

Hopes  that  she  so  long  hath  known. 

William  Wordsworth. 


SWINGING.  yi 

SWINGING. 
(PANTOUM.) 

Birds  in  the  treetops  were  singing ; 

It  was  the  middle  of  June ; 
Dolly  sat  dreamily  swinging, 

Coming  was  somebody  soon. 

It  was  the  middle  of  June, 

All  the  green  leaves  were  a-flicker ; 

Coming  was  somebody  soon  : 

Surely  he  might  have  come  quicker ! 

All  the  green  leaves  were  a-flicker, 

Hid  they  a  glimpse  of  the  gate  ; 
Surely  he  might  have  come  quicker  ! 

What  could  have  made  him  so  late  ? 

Hid  they  a  glimpse  of  the  gate, 

Roses,  with  bumble-bees  humming ; 

What  could  have  made  him  so  late  ? 
Hark  !  now  a  footstep  was  coming. 

Roses,  with  bumble-bees  humming ; 

Dolly  swung  on  at  her  ease  ; 
Hark  !  now  a  footstep  was  coming. 

Could  she  be  seen  through  the  trees  ? 

Dolly  swung  on  at  her  ease. 

Forward  and  backward,  half  dreaming  ; 
Could  she  be  seen  through  the  trees, 

White  in  the  walnut  boughs  gleaming  ? 


72  SJI7XG/jVG. 

Forward  and  backward,  half  dreaming, 
Let  him  come  find  her,  she  said, 

White  in  the  wahiut  boughs  gleaming: 
She  would  not  call  him  instead  ! 

Let  him  come  find  her,  she  said : 

Oh,  she  would  show  herself  haughty ! 

She  would  not  call  him  instead, 
He  was  so  lazy  and  naughty. 

Oh,  she  would  show  herself  haughty ; 

Oh,  he  should  meet  with  his  match ! 
He  was  so  lazy  and  naughty ; 

Click !  went  the  sound  of  the  latch. 

Oh,  he  should  meet  with  his  match ! 

Sudden,  or  ever  she  reckoned. 
Click  !  went  the  sound  of  the  latch. 

He  would  be  there  in  a  second ! 

Sudden,  or  ever  she  reckoned. 
Blushed  she  as  red  as  a  rose  : 

He  would  be  there  in  a  second ! 

Perhaps  he  /lad  hurried,  — w^ho  knows  ? 

Blushed  she  as  red  as  a  rose, 
Looking  so  doubtful  and  pretty  ; 

Perhaps  he  /lad  hurried,  —  who  knows  ? 
To  quarrel  would  be  such  a  pity ! 

Looking  so  doubtful  and  pretty,  — 
Speak,  or  allow  him  to  pass  ? 


IN  JUNE.  73 

To  quarrel  would  be  such  a  pity ! 
There  was  his  step  on  the  grass ! 

Speak,  or  allow  him  to  pass  ? 

Let  him  go  by  without  stopping  ? . 
There  was  his  step  on  the  grass  ! 

Ah,  how  the  roses  were  dropping  ! 

Let  him  go  by  withotit  stopping  ? 

Up,  and  to  meet  him  she  flew ! 
Ah,  how  the  roses  were  dropping  ! 

Sweetly  the  summer  wind  blew. 

Up,  and  to  meet  him  she  flew ! 

Arms  round  his  neck  she  was  flinging ; 
Sweetly  the  summer  wind  blew. 

Birds  in  the  treetops  were  singing. 

May  Probyn. 


IN  JUNE. 

The  hills  are  far  and  a  purple  haze 

Lies  on  their  crests  like  a  cloud  of  smoke  : 

The  breath  of  the  pines,  these  warm  June  days, 

Flows  softly  over  the  dusty  ways 

Like  smells  of  myrrh  from  a  chest  of  oak. 

The  pale,  pink  roses  with  golden  eyes 

Thrust  wondering  faces  from  bush  and  fence, 


74  ^   BALLADE   OF  A    JV/XDY  DAY. 

The  sweet,  white  Indian-blossom  lies 
Like  snow  in  the  fields,  the  sea  replies 

With  vagiie,  deejD  chants  to  the  yearning  sense. 

Grey  birds  with  silver  beneath  the  wing 
Fly  up  to  the  blue  of  the  boundless  sky, 

A  red-breast  robin  begins  to  sing, 

An  oriole  (gorgeous  flame-lit  thing) 
Like  a  bit  of  sunset  flashes  by. 

In  yonder  meadow  we  catch  a  hint 

Of  color  in  swaying  clover  red. 
While  yellow  buttercups  bend  and  glint, 
And  a  silken  thistle  of  royal  tint 

Is  nodding  its  plumed  and  lazy  head, 

James  Berry  Bensel. 


A   BALLADE   OF  A    JV/jVDV  DAY. 

Hither  and  thither  the  swift  birds  fly, 

(Song  and  a  singing  wherever  they  go  !) 
Thither  and  hither  across  the  sky 

The  thin  clouds  flit ;  and  the  sun  is  low. 

And  the  grass  is  new,  and  the  red  buds  show 
Their  sweet  faint  blush  to  the  winds  that  stray, 

And  the  blossoms  white  fill  the  air  like  snow ; 
Sing  hey  !  heigho  !  for  a  windy  day. 

Deep  in  the  valleys  the  shadows  lie  ; 
And  yon,  where  the  singing  rivers  flow, 


JUNE.  75 

Where  the  eddies  swirl  and  the  reeds  are  high, 
Sits  Pan,  with  a  pipe  at  his  lips  to  blow. 
And  the  satyrs  dance  with  the  nymphs  a-row, 

While  Pan  plays  on,  and  the  world  is  gay ; 
Leaping  and  shouting  the  mad  crowd  go ; 

Sing  hey  !  heigho  !  for  a  windy  day. 

Up  on  the  hills  with  a  sobbing  cry 

The  treetops,  nodding,  toss  to  and  fro  ; 
Lisping,  the  scurrying  leaves  flit  by, 

In  whirling  clouds  to  the  fields  below. 

Daffodils  toss,  and  the  roses  glow  ; 
The  golden  meadows  in  great  waves  sway ; 

June  is  a-flying,  but  none  must  know ; 
Sing  hey  !  heigho !  for  a  windy  day. 

ENVOY. 

Queen,  as  a  dream  of  the  long  ago 

That  thrills  the  heart  in  a  sweet  strange  way, 

The  days  are  going.     But  let  them  go. 
Sing  hey !  heigho  !  for  a  windy  day. 

Alanson  Bigelow  Houghton. 


JUNE. 

.  .  .  June,  whose  beauties  vie 

With  the  roses'  richest  shade, 
So  sweet  as  to  set  us  dreaming 
That  a  rose  has  grown  a  maid. 

Edgar  Fawcett. 
77^1?  Masque  of  Months. 


76  THE  DANCE   OF  DEATH. 

THE  DANCE   OF  DEATH. 

And  now  the  old  world  holds  high  holiday 
And  pranks  herself  in  garments  brave  and  gay ; 
June  roses  burst  from  folded  buds  of  May  ; 
The  air  is  full  of  perfume  and  of  blithe  birds'  lay. 
Come  then,  my  heart,  let  us  fare  forth  with  these, 
In  all  this  joy  dull  sorrow  finds  surcease  ; 
My  sullen  lute,  beneath  these  blooming  trees 
And  swept  by  fingers  of  the  odorous  breeze, 
Sure  thy  mute  strings  will  wake  to  life  to-day 
And  sing  to  June  a  blithesome  roundelay. 

From  out  the  wood  there  crept  a  shadow  still, 
Before  it,  died  the  sunshine  off  the  hill ; 
It  swept  the  lute,  and  on  its  icy  breath 
Faltered  a  song,  a  song  of  Love  and  Death. 

O  dance,  ye  rose-crowned  hours  of  June, 

Beneath  the  merry  sun. 
And  dance  beneath  the  loving  moon 

When  jocund  day  is  done. 

Bright,  bright,  the  sunshine  and  the  moon 

But  bitter  black  the  shade  : 
Beneath  thy  roses,  blithesome  June, 

Are  there  no  dead  men  laid .-' 

Dim  wraiths  of  dead  and  buried  Junes, 

Sweet  dreams  and  hearts  aglow, 
Of  brighter  suns  and  sweeter  moons 

Of  hopes  dead  long  ago  ? 


JUNE  LOVE  SONG.  7/ 

O  joyous  June,  heap  high  your  flowers, 
You  cannot  hide  the  graves  beneath;. 

Sing,  birds,  and  dance,  ye  merry  hours. 
Tread  with  my  ghosts  the  Dance  of  Death. 

With  one  wild  note  of  rapture  or  of  pain 

The  lute-strings  snapped  and  all  was  still  again. 

Mrs.  Jane  [Goodwin]  Austin. 


JUNE  LOVE  SONG. 

Passing  sweet  with  songs  and  roses, 
Day  is  ours  until  it  closes. 

What  though  snow  must  yet  be  storming 

Airs  the  red  rose  now  is  warming ! 
What  care  we,  such  rosy  weather, 
If  we  live  this  day  together  ? 

By  the  scripture  of  my  kiss 

Never  was  a  June  like  this  ! 

Oh,  how  joy  and  beauty  bind  us 
To  forget  all  ills  behind  us ! 

Though  before  us  die  as  many. 

Thou  and  I  care  not  for  any. 
June  makes  heaven  in  scent,  sound,  seeing; 
Love  makes  heaven  within  our  being. 

By  the  scripture  of  thy  kiss, 

Never  was  a  day  like  this  ! 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


78  FULL  SUMMER  NOW. 

SUMMER'S  RAIN  AND    WINTER'S  SNOIV. 

Summer's  rain  and  winter's  snow 
With  the  seasons  come  and  go ; 

Shine  and  shower; 
Tender  bud  and  perfect  flower ; 
Silver  blossom,  golden  fruit ; 

Song  and  lute, 
With  their  inward  sound  of  pain : 
Winter's  snow  and  summer's  rain ; 

Frost  and  fire ; 
Joy  beyond  the  heart's  desire,  — 
And  our  June  comes  round  again. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 
The  New  Day. 


FULL  SUMMER  NOW. 

It  is  full  summer  now,  the  heart  of  June ; 

Not  yet  the  sunburnt  reapers  are  astir 
Upon  the  upland  meadow  where  too  soon 

Rich  autumntime,  the  season's  usurer, 
Will  lend  his  hoarded  gold  to  all  the  trees 
And  see  his  treasure  scattered  by  the  wild  and  spend- 
thrift breeze. 

Poo  soon,  indeed !  yet  here  the  daffodil, 
That  love-child  of  the  spring,  has  lingered  on 

To  vex  the  rose  with  jealousy,  and  still 
The  harebell  spreads  her  azure  pavilion, 


A   JUNE  DAY.  79 

And  like  a  strayed  and  wandering  reveler 
Abandoned  of  its  brothers,  whom  long  since  June's 
messenger, 

The  missel-thrush,  has  frighted  from  the  glade, 

One  pale  narcissus  loiters  fearfully 
Close  to  a  shadowy  nook,  where  half  afraid 

Of  their  own  loveliness  some  violets  lie 
That  will  not  look  the  gold  sun  in  the  face. 

Oscar  Wilde. 
The  Garden  of  Eros. 


A    JUNE  DAY. 

The  month  is  June,  but  all  the  sky  is  grey, 

And  to  the  weary  earth  seems  leaning  low ; 

There  is  no  little  breath  of  wind  to  blow 
The  searching  perfume  of  these  flowers  away 
Which  climbing  round  the  window  peer  and  stay ; 

The   thrush   sings,    where   the   branches    thickly 
grow; 

The  day  moves  by,  with  heavy  feet  and  slow ; 
"  Death  endeth  all,"  the  stillness  seems  to  say. 
But  Love  shall  come  before  Death's  nuptial  hour ; 

There  sits  my  queen  and  silent,  pondering  what  ? 
Sees  she,  as  I,  Love's  joy-environed  bower, 

Where  sweet  conspiring  things  one  sweeter  plot, 
Or  does  she  hear,   'neath  some   grave's    guardian 
flower, 

Sad  sighing  of  dead  loves  remembered  not  ? 

Philip  Bourke  Marston. 


80  THE  BUMBLE-BEE. 

THE  BUMBLE-BEE. 

Buzzing  little  t)usybody ! 

Happy  little  hayfield  rover ! 
Don't  you  feel  your  own  importance, 

Bustling  through  these  wilds  of  clover? 

Don't  your  little  wings  grow  weary 

Of  this  never-ceasing  labor  ? 
When  the  butterfly  swings  near  you, 

Envy  you  your  idle  neighbor? 

Stay  a  moment,  —  stay  and  tell  me  ! 

Won't  my  gossip  make  you  tarry  ? 
Hurry  home,  then,  honey-laden, 

Fast  as  busy  wings  can  carry. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  tiny  toiler, 

Noisy  little  mid-air  steamer ! 
Thou  hast  taught  a  wholesome  lesson 

To  an  idle  daylight  dreamer. 

Lying  here  among  the  blossoms. 

While  the  dusky  night  advances, 
With  her  shadowy  battalions 

Driving  back  day's  golden  lances, 

I  have  dreamed  of  great  achievements 

In  the  future's  glorious  hours  ; 
But  you  teach  me  to  make  honey 

From  the  sweets  of  present  flowers. 

Charles  Henry  Noyes. 


JUNE.  8 1 

A   JUNE  DAY. 

The  very  spirit  of  summer  breathes  to-day, 
Here  where  I  sun  me  in  a  dreamy  mood, 
And  laps  the  sultry  leas,  and  seems  to  brood 
Tenderly  o'er  those  hazed  hills  far  away. 
The  murmurous  air,  fragrant  of  new-mown  hay. 
Drowses,  save  when  martins  at  gleeful  feud. 
Gleam  past  in  undulant  flight.    Yon  hillside  wood 
Is  drowned  in  sunshine,  till  its  green  looks  grey, 
No  scrap  of  cloud  is  in  the  still  blue  sky. 

Vaporous  with  heat,  from  which  the  foreground 
trees 
Stand  out,  each  leaf  cut  sharp.     A  whetted  scythe 
Makes  rustic  music  for  me  as  I  lie. 

Glad  in  the  mirth  of  distant  children  blithe, 
Drinking  the  season's  sweetness  to  the  lees. 

John  Todhunter. 


JUNE. 

The  season  was  the  season  of  sweet  June, 
Whose  sunny  hours  from  morning  until  noon 
Went  creeping  through  the  day  with  silent  feet, 
Each  with  its  load  of  pleasure,  slow  yet  sweet ; 
Like  the  long  years  of  blest  eternity. 
Never  to  be  developed. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
Fiordispi)ia, 


82  A    QUEST. 

A    QUEST. 

"Thou  dear,  fair  Summer,  where  art  thou?  "  I  said, 

"  I  find  thy  roses  brightening  the  tired,  old  world ; 

Thy  daisy  stars  illumining  the  fields. 

Thy  meadows  stretching  wide  beneath  the  sky 

Send  up  full  breaths  of  fragrance  to  the  sun 

That  woos  this   sweetness   from   the   earth's   deep 

heart. 
Atoms  of  color  thou  hast  called  to  life, 
(We  name  them  butterflies,)  float  lazily 
On  clover  swings,  their  drop  of  honey  made 
By  thee,  dear  queen,  all  ready  for  their  need. 
Thy  birds  sing  songs  about  thee ;  would  we  knew 
Their  perfect  sense  !  but  thee  we  cannot  find." 
So  saying  to  myself,  I  sudden  came 
To  a  still  nook  where  oaks  deep  shadow  made, 
And  birches  fluttered  all  their  light,  soft  leaves, 
And  sang  a  fairy  treble  to  the  bass 
Of  somber  pines.     The  grape  with  wayward  will 
Had  caught  the  shy  clematis  in  its  arms 
And  run  with  her  from  elm  to  beech  and  back, 
Till  green  festoons  a  tender  twilight  made. 
Red-coated  sentinels,  tall  lilies,  stood 
To  guard  the  dell's  approach ;  and  a  bright  brook 
Brought  diamonds  for  the  dryads  of  the  place. 
There,  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  a  girl 
And  her  true  lover  sat.     "At  last,"  I  said, 
"  I  see  the  goddess  Summer ;  other  signs 
But  show  her  power  :  herself  is  found  with  Love  !  " 
Mrs,  Mary  Frances  [Barber]  Butts. 


IN  JUNE.  83 

IN  JUNE. 

Under  the  trees  in  the  noontime  I  lie, 

And  we  whisper  together,  dear  Nature  and  I. 

Over  my  head,  in  the  wide  azure  arch 
I  see  the  cloud  army  go  out  on  a  march ; 

Here  is  a  straggler,  and  there  a  recruit 

Both  clad  in  the  white  of  a  cloud-soldier's  suit. 

The  wind  whispers  softly  a  secret  to  me. 

It  has  seen  thejirst  rose  of  jfunc  kissed  by  a  bee. 

And  I  see  its  bright  splendor  flash  out  on  the  spray, 
A  little  red  world  that  will  last  for  a  day. 

The  lowing  of  cattle  comes  down  the  hills 
And  blends  with  the  ripple  of  unseen  rills. 

And  listen  !  for  near  us  the  crickets  hide 
Rehearsing  a  concert  for  eventide. 

The  air  is  sweet  with  the  scent  of  grass 
That  falls  in  the  meadows  where  mowers  pass. 

There  is  silence  here  that  is  full  of  sound. 
I  fancy  the  spot  is  enchanted  ground 

Where  never  a  grief  nor  a  woe  may  tread, 
But  Peace,  like  an  angel,  walks  instead. 

Eben  Eugene  Rexford. 


84  yi   JUNE   GARDEN  CAROL, 

A   JUNE  GARDEN  CAROL. 

When  the  pearly  dewdrop  dowers 

Musky  garden  slopes 
In  the  long  June  twilight  hours, 

Then  the  primrose  opes ; 

Sees  the  virgin  lily's  eyes, 

Lidded  like  the  snow, 
Lift  in  tender  wooing  wise 

To  the  Jacqueminot ; 

Hears  the  sound  of  elfin  feet 

Tinkling  on  the  sward, 
Knows  'tis  where  the  pixies  meet, 

Keeping  careful  ward ; 

Smiles  to  find  Sir  Puck  astride 

Of  a  spear  of  phlox, 
Marks  the  nimble  fairies  glide 

Round  the  hollyhocks ; 

Joys  in  breezes  bearing  balm 

From  Hesperian  isles, 
In  the  soft,  cerulean  calm 

Of  the  starry  miles  ; 

Thrills  to  hear  the  night  birds  sing 

In  the  rustling  thorn, 
Till  the  tiny  harebells  ring, 

Welcoming  the  morn. 

Clinton  Scollard, 


FIREFLIES.  85 

FIREFLIES. 

'Tis  June,  and  all  the  lowland  swamps 

Are  rich  with  tufted  reeds  and  ferns, 
And  filmy  with  the  vaporous  damps 

That  rise  when  twilight's  crimson  burns ; 
And  as  the  deepening  dusk  of  night 
Steals  purpling  up  from  vale  to  height, 
The  wanton  fireflies  show  their  fitful  light. 

Soft  gleams  on  clover-blooms  they  fling. 

And  glimmer  in  each  shadowy  dell, 
Or,  downward,  with  a  sudden  swing 

Fall,  as  of  old  a  Pleiad  fell ; 
And  on  the  fields  bright  gems  they  strow 
And  up  and  down  the  meadow  go. 
And  through  the  forest  wander  to  and  fro. 

They  store  no  hive  nor  earthy  cell. 

They  sip  no  honey  from  the  rose  ; 
By  day  unseen,  unknown  they  dwell, 

Nor  aught  of  their  rare  gift  disclose ; 
Yet,  when  the  night  upon  the  swamps. 
Calls  out  the  murk  and  misty  damps. 
They  pierce  the  shadows  with  their  shining  lamps. 

Now  ye,  who  in  life's  garish  light, 

Unseen,  unknown,  walk  to  and  fro. 
When  death  shall  bring  a  dreamless  night, 

May  ye  not  find  your  lamps  aglow  ? 


so  A   BALLADE   OF  SUMMER. 

God  works,  we  know  not  why  or  how 
And,  one  day,  lights,  close  hidden  now, 
May  blaze  like  gems  upon  an  angel's  brow. 

George  Arnold. 


A   BALLADE   OF  SUMMER. 

The  air  is  drowsing  in  a  swoon, 

Unbroke  of  sound,  while  golden  rays 
Of  sun  divide  the  afternoon 

In  sleepy  hues  and  sullen  haze  ; 

Across  the  fields,  through  woody  ways, 
A  faint  breeze  stirs  with  listless  feet ; 

The  beetle  drones,  the  rosebush  sways : 
Methinks  the  summertime  is  sweet ! 

I  hear  the  bee's  low  murmurous  tune 

As  from  pale  bloom  to  bright  he  strays ; 
He  comes  too  oft  but  leaves  too  soon, 

No  single  blossom's  love  allays  ; 

The  brook  with  broken  bank-weeds  plays, 
Fallen  flowers  and  breeze-blown  blades  of  wheat 

Wee  birds  sing  little  songs  of  praise  : 
Methinks  the  summertime  is  sweet ! 

Anon  the  night  of  leaf-lit  June 

Brings  down  to  many  a  flowery  maze 

The  cooling  kisses  of  the  moon 

To  ease  the  spiteful  stings  of  days ; 


OH  THE  MERRY  LAY  OF  JUNE.  8/ 

The  fields  lie  bathed  in  mellow  blaze 
Of  silver.     Now  I  haste  to  greet 

The  true  love  that  my  heart  obeys : 
Methinks  the  summertime  is  sweet  1 

ENVOY. 

Reader  and  lover,  Love  portrays 
All  seasons  in  fair  hues  complete  ; 

Love  lives  when  gold  or  fame  decays, 
And  love,  like  summertime,  is  sweet ! 

J.  S.  H.  Umsted. 


OH  THE  MERRY  LAY  OF  JUNE. 

Hear  the  skylark  in  the  cloud, 
Hear  the  cricket  in  the  grass. 

Trilling  blitheness  clear  and  loud, 
Chirping  glee  to  all  who  pass. 

Oh,  the  merry  summer  lay  ! 

Earth  and  sky  keep  holiday. 

Hear  the  leaves  that  kiss  the  air, 
Hear  the  laughter  of  the  bees  : 
Who  remembers  winter  care 

In  the  shining  days  like  these  ? 
Oh,  the  merry  lay  of  June  ! 
All  our  hearts  are  glad  in  tune. 

Mrs.  Augusta  [Davies]  Wkpster. 
Disguises, 


88  JUNE. 

JUNE'S  HUSBANDRY. 

Wash  sheep  (for  the  better)  where  water  doth  run, 
And  let  him  go  cleanly,  and  dry  in  the  sun  : 
Then  shear  him,  and  spare  not,  at  two  days  an  end, 
The  sooner  the  better,  his  corps  will  amend. 

If  meadow  be  forward,  be  mowing  of  some, 
But  mow  as  the  makers  may  well  overcome. 
Take  heed  to  the  weather,  the  wind  and  the  sky. 
If  danger  approacheth,  then  cock  apace,  cry. 

Plow  early  till  ten  o'clock,  then  to  thy  hay, 
In  plowing  and  carting,  so  profit  ye  may. 
By  little  and  little  thus  doing  ye  win. 
That  plow  shall  not  hinder  when  harvest  comes  in. 

Thomas  Tusser. 


JUNE. 

Were  I  a  poet  I  should  sing 
June's  radiance  of  blossoming. 

Were  I  a  queen  a  crown  I'd  wear 
Of  her  red  roses  on  my  hair. 

I'm  but  a  woman,  and  to  me 

June  is  the  memory.  Love,  of  thee. 

Minna  Caroline  Smith. 


A  JUNE  DAY.  89 

EVENING  PRIMROSES. 

While  grey  was  the  summer  evening, 

Hast  never  a  small  sprite  seen 
Lighting  the  fragrant  torches 

For  the  feast  of  the  Fairy  Queen  ? 

The  buds  on  the  primrose  bushes 

Upspring  into  yellow  light, 
But  ever  the  wee  deft  spirit 

Escapes  my  bewildered  sight. 

Yet  oft,  through  the  dusky  garden, 

A  dainty  white  moth  will  fly, 
Or,  pink  as  a  pink  rose-petal, 

One  lightly  will  waver  by. 

Perhaps  'tis  the  shape  he  comes  in, 

Perhaps  it  is  he  indeed, 
Sir  Moth,  or  the  merry  Cobweb, 

Or  the  whimsical  Mustard-seed ! 

Helen  Gray  Cone 


A   JUNE  DAY. 

Is  this  the  June,  —  the  jewel  of  the  year? 

The  dearest  month  of  earth  ? 
Let  all  the  yellow  morning  disappear 

In  feasting  and  in  mirth. 


QO  A   JUNE  DAY. 

Up  from  the  hill  gaps  springs  the  joyful  Day, 

She  dips  to  field  and  fen  ; 
The  purple  summits  kindle  far  away : 

Ah,  June,  beloved  of  men  ! 

The  long  fields  glimmer  in  a  foamy  wake, 

Drenched  daisies,  white  with  dew ; 
Up  through  the  wet  and  tangled  meshes  break 

Loose  harebells,  budded  blue  ; 
The  high  hills  drink  the  summer  sun  as  wine, 

They  tingle,  bough  and  root. 
From  crested  brink  of  laurel  and  pine 

To  birches  at  the  foot. 

The  strong  sun  reddens  high  in  middle  skies ; 

The  noon,  the  dry-lipped  noon ! 
As  forged  of  iron,  the'  stretched  white  highway  lies . 

Fierce  June  ! 
Forged  out  of  iron,  tempered  in  the  heat, 

The  slow,  bright  stream  runs  down  ; 
T>ry,  mulleined  hills,  and  pastures  hard  and  sweet, 

All  still,  —  as  still  as  stone. 

Her  level  fires  in  vivid  splendor  pour : 

The  noon,  the  shining  noon ! 
The  silent  river  glows  like  melted  ore  : 

Bright  June  ! 
Green-aisled  and  dark  the  leafy  woodlands  lie, 

The  summits  grooved  and  grey ; 
Above  them  stares  the  hot,  uncurtained  sky : 

The  brazen  disc  of  Day  1 


A  JUNE  NIGHT.  9I 

Lower  and  lower  the  light  is  failing ; 

Waves  of  color  that  come  and  go ; 
Yellow  and  purple  slowly  paling, 

Flush  of  pink  in  the  afterglow ; 
Booming  bees  forsake  the  clover. 
Day  is  over ! 

Faster  and  faster  from  hazy  hollow 
Night  is  closing  on  field  and  wood ; 

Out  of  the  west  the  late-bound  swallow 
Hastens  back  to  the  crumpled  brood ; 

Stately-winged,  the  night  hawks  hover. 

Day  is  over ! 

Forest  and  fallow  grow  dark  together, 
A  bell  in  the  distance  sounding  slow ; 

Still  the  light  of  the  rosy  weather 
Welling  up  in  the  afterglow  ; 

Now  the  starry  skies  discover 

Day  is  over  1 

Dora  Read  Goodale. 


A   JUNE  NIGHT. 

Ten  o'clock  :  the  broken  moon 
Hangs  not  yet  a  half  hour  high, 
Yellow  as  a  shield  of  brass. 
In  the  dewy  air  of  June, 

Poised  between  the  vaulted  sky 
And  the  ocean's  liquid  glass. 


92  A   JUNE  N/Gl/T. 

Earth  lies  in  the  shadow  still ; 
Low  black  bushes,  trees  and  lawn 
Night's  ambrosial  dews  absorb  ; 
Through  the  foliage  creeps  a  thrill, 
Whispering  of  yon  spectral  dawn 
And  the  hidden  climbing  orb. 

Higher,  higher,  gathering  light, 
Veiling  with  a  golden  gauze 
All  the  trembling  atmosphere, 
See,  the  rayless  disk  grows  white  ! 
Hark,  the  glittering  billows  pause ! 
Faint,  far  sounds  possess  the  ear. 

Elves  on  such  a  night  as  this 
Spin  their  rings  upon  the  grass ; 
On  the  beach  the  water-fay 
Greets  her  lover  with  a  kiss  ; 

Through  the  air  swift  spirits  pass, 
Laugh,  caress,  and  float  away. 

Shut  thy  lids  and  thou  shalt  see 
Angel  faces  wreathed  with  light. 
Mystic  forms  long  vanished  hence. 
Ah,  too  fine,  too  rare  they  be 
For  the  grosser  mortal  sight, 
And  they  foil  our  waking  sense. 

Yet  we  feel  them  floating  near, 
Know  that  we  are  not  alone, 


THE  LONG  DAYS.  93 

Though  our  open  eyes  behold 
Nothing  save  the  moon's  bright  sphere, 
In  the  vacant  heavens  shown, 
And  the  ocean's  path  of  gold. 

Emma  Lazarus. 


THE  LONG  DAYS. 

Yes  !  they  are  here  again,  the  long,  long  days. 
After  the  days  of  vi'inter,  pinched  and  white  ; 
Soon,  with  a  thousand  minstrels  comes  the  light, 

Late,  the  sweet  robin-haunted  dusk  delays. 

But  the  long  days  that  bring  us  back  the  flowers, 
The  sunshine,  and  the  quiet-dripping  rain. 
And  all  the  things  we  knew  of  spring  again, 

The  long  days  bring  us  not  the  long-lost  hours. 

The  hours  that  now  seem  to  have  been  each  one 
A  summer  in  itself,  a  whole  life's  bound, 
Filled  full  of  deathless  joy, — where  in  his  round 

Have  these  forever  faded  from  the  sun  ? 

The  fret,  the  fever,  the  unrest  endures. 
But  the  time  flies,  —  oh,  try,  my  little  lad, 
Coming  so  hot  and  play-worn,  to  be  glad 

And  patient  of  the  long  hours  that  are  yours  ! 

William  Dean  Howells. 


94  WHEN  CLOVER  BLOOMS. 

WHEN  CLOVER  BLOOMS. 

When  clover  blooms  in  the  meadows, 

And  the  happy  south  winds  blow ; 
When  under  the  leafy  shadows 
The  singing  waters  flow,  — 

Then  come  to  me  ;  as  you  pass 
I  shall  hear  your  feet  in  the  grass. 
And  my  heart  shall  awake  and  leap 
From  its  cool,  dark  couch  of  sleep, 
And  shall  thrill  again,  as  of  old, 
Ere  its  long  rest  under  the  mold. 
When  clover  blooms. 

Deem  not  that  I  shall  not  waken  ; 
I  shall  know,  my  love,  it  is  you ; 
I  shall  feel  the  tall  grass  shaken, 
I  shall  hear  the  drops  of  the  dew 
That  scatter  before  your  feet ; 
I  shall  smell  the  perfume  sweet 
Of  the  red  rose  that  you  wear, 
As  of  old  in  your  sunny  hair ; 
Deem  not  that  I  shall  not  know 
It  is  your  light  feet  that  go 
Mid  clover  blooms. 

O  love,  the  years  have  parted  — 
The  long,  long  years  !  —  our  ways  ; 

You  have  gone  with  the  merry-hearted 
These  many  and  many  days, 


TO  A  JUNE  ROSE.  95 

And  I  with  that  grim  guest 
Who  loveth  the  silence  best. 
But  come  to  me,  —  I  shall  wait 
For  your  coming,  soon  or  late, 
For,  soon  or  late,  I  know, 
You  shall  come  to  my  rest  below 
The  clover  blooms, 

James  Benjamin  Kenyon. 


TO  A   JUNE  ROSE. 

(RONDEAU.) 

O  ROYAL  Rose  !  the  Roman  dressed 
His  feast  with  thee ;  thy  petals  pressed 
Augustan  brows  ;  thine  odor  fine 
Mixed  with  the  three-times-mingled  wine, 
Lent  the  long  Thracian  draught  its  zest. 

What  marvel  then,  if  host  amd  guest, 
By  love,  by  song,  by  thee  caressed. 
Half-trembled  on  the  half-divine, 
O  royal  Rose  ! 

And  yet  —  and  yet  —  I  love  thee  best 
In  our  old  gardens  of  the  West, 

Whether  about  my  thatch  thou  twine, 
Or  hers,  that  brown-eyed  maid  of  mine, 
Who  lulls  thee  on  her  lawny  breast, 
O  royal  Rose  ! 

Henry  Austin  Dobson. 


9^  WHAT  IS  SO  RARE. 

WHAT  IS  SO  RARE. 

No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 
And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  : 
Whether  we  look,  or  w'hether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light. 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys  ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice. 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves. 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings  ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest : 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 
James  Russell  Lowell. 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Laitufal. 


IN  JUNE.  97 

IN  A   JUNE  GARDEN. 

There  is  a  belt  of  pinks,  christened  quite  wrong, 
For  white,  all  white,  and  scented  like  the  clove  ; 
A  running  riband  of  perfumed  snow, 
Which  the  hot  sun  is  melting  rapidly. 

Then  behind  the  pinks, 

Are  ostentatious  marigolds  that  flaunt 
Their  buxom  wealth  i'  the  sun  ;  tall  poppy  stems 
Almost  as  long  as  your  sword,  and  O,  with  heads 
Plump  as  a  gourd  ;  light-nodding  meadow-sweet, 
Gracious  as  plume  of  gallant  cavalier 
Throned  on  his  steed ;  and  modest  mignonette. 
That  nowhere  seen,  surmised  is  everywhere. 

Alfred  Austin. 
Savonarola. 


IN  JUNE. 

'TwAS  in  June's  bright  and  glowing  prime 
The  loveliest  of  the  summertime. 
The  laurels  were  one  splendid  sheet 

Of  crowded  blossom  everywhere ; 
The  locusts'  clustered  pearl  was  sweet, 

And  the  tall  whitewood  made  the  air 
Delicious  with  the  fragrance  shed 
From  the  gold  flowers  all  o'er  it  spread. 

Alfred  Billings  Street. 
Froutenac. 


98  A   NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

A   NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

Lady  !  in  this  night  of  June, 

Fair  like  thee  and  holy, 
Art  thou  gazing  at  the  moon 
That  is  rising  slowly  ? 
I  am  gazing  on  her  now  : 
Something  tells  me,  so  art  thou. 

Night  hath  been  when  thou  and  I 

Side  by  side  were  sitting. 
Watching  o'er  the  moonlit  sky 
Fleecy  cloudlets  flitting. 

Close  our  hands  were  linked  then ; 
When  will  they  be  linked  again  ? 

What  to  me  the  starlight  still, 

Or  the  moonbeams'  splendor, 
If  I  do  not  feel  the  thrill 
Of  thy  fingers  slender  ? 

Summer  nights  in  vain  are  clear. 
If  thy  footsteps  be  not  near. 

Roses  slumbering  in  their  sheaths 

O'er  my  threshold  clamber, 
And  the  honeysuckle  wreathes 
Its  translucent  amber 

Round  the  gables  of  my  home : 
How  is  it  thou  dost  not  come  ? 

If  thou  camest,  rose  on  rose 
From  its  sleep  would  waken ; 


JUNE.  99 

From  each  flower  and  leaf  that  blows 
Spices  would  be  shaken  ; 

Floating  down  from  star  and  tree, 
Dreamy  perfumes  welcome  thee. 

I  would  give  thee  all  I  own, 

All  thou  hast  would  borrow, 
I  from  thee  would  keep  alone 
Fear  and  doubt  and  sorrow. 
All  of  tender  that  is  mine, 
Should  most  tenderly  be  thine. 

Moonlight !  into  other  skies, 

I  beseech  thee  wander. 
Cruel,  thus  to  mock  mine  eyes. 
Idle,  thus  to  squander 

Love's  own  light  on  this  dark  spot ; 
For  my  lady  cometh  not ! 

Alfred  Austin. 


JUNE. 

O  June,  O  June,  that  we  desired  so. 
Wilt  thou  not  make  us  happy  on  this  day  ? 
Across  the  river  thy  soft  breezes  blow 
Sweet  with  the  scent  of  beanfields  far  away. 
Above  our  heads  rustle  the  aspens  grey, 
Calm  is  the  sky  with  harmless  clouds  beset, 
No  thought  of  storm  the  morning  vexes  yet. 


ICX)  U'lIirPOOKWII.L. 

See,  we  have  left  our  hopes  and  fears  beliind 

To  give  our  very  hearts  up  unto  thee  ; 

What  better  place  than  this  then  could  we  find 

By  this  sweet  stream  that  knows  not  of  the  sea, 

That  guesses  not  the  city's  misery, 

This  little  stream  whose  hamlets  scarce  have  names. 

This  far-off,  lonely  mother  of  the  Thames  ? 

Here  then,  O  June,  thy  kindness  will  we  take ; 
And  if  indeed  but  pensive  men  we  seem. 
What  should  we  do  ?  thou  wouldst  not  have  us  wake 
From  out  the  arms  of  this  rare  happy  dream. 
And  wish  to  leave  the  murmur  of  the  stream, 
The  rustling  boughs,  the  twitter  of  the  birds, 
And  all  thy  thousand  peaceful  happy  words. 

William  Morris. 
The  Earthly  Paradise, 


WHIP  POOR  WILL. 

Listen  how  the  whippoorwill. 
From  his  song-bed  veiled  and  dusky, 
Fills  the  night  ways  warm  and  musky 
With  his  music's  throb  and  thrill ! 
'Tis  the  Western  nightingale. 
Lodged  within  the  orchard's  pale, 
Starting  into  sudden  tune 
Mid  the  amorous  air  of  June  ; 
Lord  of  all  the  songs  of  night, 
Bird  unseen,  of  voice  outright, 


O  JUNE,  SWEET  JUNE,  lOI 

Buried  in  the  sumptuous  gloom 
Of  his  shadow-paneled  room, 
Roofed  above  by  webbed  and  woven 
Leaf  and  bloom,  by  moonbeams  cloven, 
Searched  by  odorous  zephyrs  through, 
Dim  with  dusk  and  damp  with  dew : 
He  it  is  that  makes  the  night 
An  enchantment  and  delight, 
Opening  his  entrancing  tale 
Where  the  evening  robins  fail, 
Ending  the  victorious  strain 
When  the  robins  sing  again. 

Obadiah  Cornelius  Auringer. 


O  JUNE,  SWEET  JUNE. 

My  heart  within  me  is  singing  a  tune. 
Its  echo  is  ever,  "  O  June,  sweet  June  ! 

The  sun's  in  the  valley,  the  bloom  on  the  brier !  " 
And  lo,  the  dead  leaves  that  the  autumn  had  strewn 

O'er  a  grave,  give  way  to  the  blossoms'  desire. 

From  the  heart  of  the  earth  there  is  warbled  a  tune. 
Its  cadence  ever  is,  "June,  leafy  June ! 

Dead  leaves  shall  crumble  and  vanish  in  fire  ; 
But  the  souls  that  with  courage  and  grief  commune 

Shall  never  in  music  or  flame  expire  !  " 

George  Parsons  Latiirop. 


102        SHE    WAS   WON  IN  AN  IDLE  DAY. 

SHE    WAS   WON  IN  AN  IDLE  DAY. 

"  She  was  won  in  an  idle  day," 

Won  when  the  roses  were  red  in  June, 
And  the  world  was  set  to  a  drowsy  tune, 

Won  by  a  lover  who  rode  away. 

Summer  things  basked  in  the  summer  sun ; 

Through  the  roses  a  vagrant  wind 

Stole  their  passionate  hearts  to  find. 
Found  them,  and  kissed  them,  and  then  was  gone. 

Wooed  by  the  June  day's  fervent  breath, 

Violets  opened  their  violet  eyes. 

Gazed  too  long  at  the  ardent  skies, 
And  swooned  with  the  dying  day  to  death. 

Nothing  was  earnest  and  nothing  was  true ; 

W^inds  were  wanton  and  flowers  were  frail ; 

And  the  idle  lover  who  told  his  tale 
Warmed  by  the  June  sun  through  and  through. 

Kissed  her  lips  as  the  wind  the  rose. 
Kissed  them  for  joy  in  the  summer  day. 
And  then  was  ready  to  ride  away 

When  over  the  night  the  moon  arose. 

The  violets  died  with  the  day's  last  breath ; 

The  roses  slept  when  the  wind  was  low ; 

What  chanced  to  the  butterflies  who  can  know  ? 
But  she  —  oh,  pity  her  !  —  waits  for  death, 

Mrs.  Louise  [Chandler]  Moulton. 


ON  THE    WILD  ROSE    TREE.  IO3 

THE    THRUSH'S  NEST. 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush, 

That  overhung  a  molehill  large  and  round, 
I  heard  from  morn  to  morn  a  merry  thrush 

Sing  hymns  of  rapture,  while  I  drank  the  sound 
With  joy,  —  and  oft,  an  unintruding  guest, 

I  watched  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day ; 
How  true  she  warped  the  moss  to  form  her  nest, 

And  modeled  it  within  with  wood  and  clay. 
And  by  and  by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew. 

There  lay  her  shining  eggs  as  bright  as  flowers, 
Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  and  blue  : 

And  there  I  witnessed  in  the  summer  hours 
A  brood  of  Nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly, 
Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  laughing  sky, 

John  Clare. 


ON  THE    WILD  ROSE   TREE. 

On  the  wild  rose  tree 
Many  buds  there  be, 
Yet  each  sunny  hour 
Hath  but  one  perfect  flower. 

Thou  who  wouldst  be  wise 
Open  wide  thine  eyes,  — 
In  each  sunny  hour 
Pluck  the  one  perfect  flower ! 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


I04  THE  DROUGHT  IN  JUNE. 

AMID    THE  LIMES. 

All  through  the  sultry  hours  of  June, 
From  morning  blithe  to  golden  noon, 

And  till  star  of  evening  climbs 
The  grey-blue  east,  a  world  too  soon, 

There  sings  a  thrush  amid  the  limes. 

God's  poet,  hid  in  foliage  green. 
Sings  endless  songs,  himself  unseen  ; 

Right  seldom  come  his  silent  times. 
Linger,  ye  summer  hours  serene  ! 

Sing  on,  dear  thrush,  amid  the  limes ! 

Mortimer  Collins. 


THE  DROUGHT  IN  JUNE. 

The  sun  shot  forth  his  fiery  rays 
On  restless  seas  and  burning  sand : 

No  showers  swept  through  our  heated  days 
To  cheer  and  beautify  the  land. 

The  earth  was  parched ;  the  springs  were  dry  ; 

And  withered  were  the  grass  and  corn ; 
The  shining  crescent  lit  the  sky, 

A  grainless  sickle,  till  the  morn. 

The  roads  were  filled  with  dust  and  heat ; 
The  streams  all  weakened  in  their  flow ; 


A  SUDDEN  SHOWER.  I05 

And  dews  refused  to  touch  the  feet 
Of  flocks  that  fed  in  fields  below. 


The  plow  was  followed  in  the  field  ; 

The  hoe  was  buried  in  the  soil ; 
But  thirsty  furrows  could  not  yield 

Their  hidden  wealth  to  earnest  toil. 

The  farmer  scanned  his  fields  so  bare 
And  sighed  that  Mercy  was  no  more ; 

While  Famine  whined,  he  thought,  in  air, 
And  crouched  around  the  opened  door. 

J.  Hazard  Hartzell. 


A   SUDDEN  SHOWER. 

The  black  clouds  roll  across  the  sun, 
Their  shadows  darken  all  the  grass  : 

The  songs  the  sweet  birds  sang  are  done. 
And  on  wide  wings  the  minstrels  pass. 

There  comes  a  sudden  sheet  of  rain 

That  beats  the  tender  field-flowers  down. 
And  in  the  narrow  fragrant  lane 

The  white  road  turns  a  muddy  brown. 

James  Berry  Bensel. 
In  the  Rain. 


I06      ACROSS   THE   CRIMSON  CLOVER  SEAS. 

ACHOSS   THE   CRIMSON  CLOVER  SEAS. 

Across  the  crimson  clover  seas 
I  hear  the  haunting  hum  of  bees 
That  rifled  all  the  rich  perfume 
From  jasmine  and  magnolia  bloom, 
When,  with  his  pallid,  icy  bands. 
Chill  winter  bound  our  northern  lands ; 
To  spicy,  palm-embowered  isles, 
Where  never-dying  summer  smiles, 
My  spirit  drifts  upon  the  breeze 
Across  the  crimson  clover  seas. 

And  where  the  Gulf  Stream  softly  laves 
Floridian  capes  with  foamy  waves, 
I  see  the  bearded  cypress  boughs. 
Like  hoary  hermits,  lift  their  brows 
Aloft  to  greet  a  sky  as  clear 
As  any  placid  mountain  mere  ; 
And  there  the  merry  mocking-birds 
Seem  uttering  melodious  words : 
How  soon  the  golden  vision  flees 
Across  the  crimson  clover  seas ! 

The  vision  fades.     Ah  !  well  it  may. 
For  one  who  makes  more  bright  the  day 
Down  greening  aisles  of  tall  grass  trips, 
A  song  upon  her  lovely  lips, 
As  merry  as  the  thrush  above. 
Out-trilling  tuneful  lays  of  love  ; 


THE  EVENING   COMES.  10/ 

And  all  my  pulses  swifter  stir, 
And  all  my  heart  goes  out  to  her, 
The  while  she  strays  in  graceful  ease 
Across  the  crimson  clover  seas. 

Clinton  Scollard. 


'THE  EVENING  COMES. 

The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still. 
The  tinkle  of  the  thirsty  rill, 
Unheard  all  day,  ascends  again  ; 
Deserted  is  the  half-mown  plain ; 
Silent  the  swaths  !  the  ringing  wain, 
The  mower's  cry,  the  dog's  alarms, 
All  housed  within  the  sleeping  farms ! 
The  business  of  the  day  is  done, 
The  last-left  haymaker  is  gone. 
And  from  the  thyme  upon  the  height, 
And  from  the  elder-blossom  white 
And  pale  dog-roses  in  the  hedge. 
And  from  the  mint-plant  in  the  sedge, 
In  puffs  of  balm  the  night  air  blows 
The  perfume  which  the  day  foregoes. 
And  on  the  pure  horizon  far. 
See,  pulsing  with  the  first  born  star, 
The  liquid  sky  above  the  hill ! 
The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still. 

Matthew  Arnold 
Bacchanalia. 


lOS       SUMMER  NIGHT  OiV  THE  HUDSON. 

JUNE. 

Lily!  uplifting  pearly-petaled  cups, 
A  sceptre  thou,  a  silver-headed  wand 

By  lusty  June,  the  lord  of  summer,  waved 
To  give  to  blade  and  bud  his  high  command. 

Ah  !  vestal-bosomed,  —  thou  that  all  the  Alay 
From  maidenly  reserve  wouldst  not  depart, 

Till  June's  warm  wooing  won  thee  to  display 
The  golden  secret  hidden  in  thy  heart. 

Without,  look,  June  :  thy  pearly  love  is  smutched. 
That  which  doth  wake  her  gentle  beauty  slays. 

Alas  that  nothing  lovely  lasts,  if  touched 
By  aught  more  real  than  a  longing  gaze. 

Edwin  Arnold 


SUMMER  NIGHT  ON  THE  HUDSON. 

'Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night ; 

The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are  bright ; 

Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 

But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  cloudless  sky, 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 

A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 

The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cro'nest, 

She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggy  breast, 

And  seems  his  huge  grey  form  to  throw 

In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below ; 


THE  HEART  OF  JUNE.  IO9 

His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 
By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made, 
And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark 
Glimmers  and  dies  the  firefly's  spark 
Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 
Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest's  rack. 

The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 
A  burnished  length  of  wavy  beam 

In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below ; 
The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still, 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid, 
And  naught  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  crickets'  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  gauze-winged  katydid  ; 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whippoorwill, 

Who  moans  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  woe, 

Till  morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings. 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 
The  Culprit  Fay. 


THE  HEART  OF  JUNE. 

Down  in  the  heart  of  the  June,  my  love, 

Down  in  the  heart  of  the  June  ; 
The  gold,  gold  sun,  like  a  bridegroom  proud, 
Lifts  the  fair  sky's  veil  of  summer  cloud. 


no  THE  HEART  OF  JUNE. 

While  the  green,  green  earth  laughs  out  aloud 
In  the  heart  of  the  red,  red  June. 

This  is  the  best  of  the  world,  my  love, 

This  is  the  best  of  the  year ; 
Behind  is  the  springtime,  cold  and  sweet, 
Forward  the  summer's  feverish  heat ; 
Stay  then,  my  darling,  thy  hurr}'ing  feet. 

For  the  best  of  our  life  is  here. 

Sip  the  red  wine  of  the  June,  my  love, 

Sip  the  red  wine  of  the  June : 
In  May  it  was  white  as  the  fading  snow, 
August's  deep  purple  will  darken  its  glow; 
Then,  with  lingering  lip  and  kisses  slow, 

Sip  the  red,  red  wine  of  the  June. 

The  roses,  June  roses,  are  red,  my  love. 

They  hang  from  your  lattice  high. 
Faint  was  the  May-blossom's  gentle  breath, 
The  orange-flower  will  be  strong  unto  death ; 
But  the  rose  is  sweet,  and  its  sweetness  saith, 

"  There  are  none  so  lovely  as  I." 

Then  live  in  the  heart  of  this  June,  my  love, 

Live  in  the  heart  of  this  June, 
Once  we  were  friends,  —  oh  cold,  barren  dearth ! 
Soon  must  our  wedded  life  prove  its  own  worth ; 
But  now  we  are  lovers,  —  gods  on  earth, 

In  the  heart  of  this  red,  red  June. 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolson. 


A  SUMMER  IDYL.  Ill 


A   SUMMER  IDYL. 


He.      The  June  wind  blows,  and  through  the  grass, 
Its  laughing  spirit  seems  to  pass, 
And  the  little  stream 
With  lilies  white  is  agleam ; 
And  in  the  orchard  the  apple-blooms 
In  an  odorous  mass 
Cover  the  place  for  a  lover's  dream : 
So  leave  these  prim  cool  rooms 
For  a  little,  dear  lass  ! 

She.     I  know  the   June  wind  blows,  and   that  the 
grass 
Laughs  low  to  hear  it  pass. 
And  that  the  stream 
With  lily-buds  is  agleam, 
But  I  doubt  if  the  scented  mass 
Of  the  tender  apple-blooms 
Hides  the  place  for  a  lover's  dream ! 
Nor  shall  I  leave  these  rooms, 
Who  am  not  your  lass  ! 

He.      Well,  well !     I  go,  —  for  see,  the  sun 
Is  burning  up  the  noon  ; 
The  wind  is  hushed,  and  soon 
Morn's  freshness  will  be  done  ; 
Soon  will  the  roses  droop. 
And  the  lilies  stoop, 
And  the  larks  cease  one  by  one, 


112  ANOTHER    WAY  OF  LOVE. 

And  the  doves  to  coo, 

And  the  breeze  cease  being  a  breeze  : 

So  I  go  to  dream  my  dream 

'Neath  the  apple-trees, 

But  she  who  fills  my  dream 

Will  not  be  you ! 

She.     Stay,  stay,  dear  love,  for  I  am  done 
With  household  work,  and  soon 
Will  spend  with  you  the  noon  ; 
Sweet  is  the  summer  sun, 
Though  the  roses  droop, 
And  the  lilies  stoop, 
And  the  wild  doves  one  by  one 
No  longer  coo 
In  the  dying  breeze  : 
So  let  me  dream  my  dream 
'Neath  the  apple-trees ; 
Ah,  there  too  let  me  dream, 
Dear  love,  with  you ! 

William  Sharp. 


ANOTHER    WAY  OF  LOVE. 

June  was  not  over 

Though  past  the  full, 
And  the  best  of  her  roses 

Had  yet  to  blow. 

When  a  man  I  know 
(But  shall  not  discover 


ANOTHER    WAY  OF  LOVE.  I13 

Since  ears  are  dull, 
And  time  discloses) 
Turned  him  and  said  with  a  man's  true  air, 
Half  sighing  a  smile  in  a  yawn,  as  t'were, 
"  If  I  tire  of  your  June,  will  she  greatly  care  ? " 

Well,  dear,  indoors  with  you  ! 

True,  serene  deadness 
Tries  a  man's  temper. 
What's  in  the  blossom 
June  wears  on  her  bosom  ? 
Can  it  clear  scores  with  you  ? 

Sweetness  and  redness, 
Eadem  sempe?-! 
Go,  let  me  care  for  it  greatly  or  slightly  ! 
If   June  mend   her  bower  now,  your  hand  left  un- 
sightly 
By  plucking  the  roses,  —  my  June  will  do  rightly. 

And  after,  for  pastime. 
If  June  be  refulgent 
With  flowers  in  completeness, 
All  petals,  no  prickles, 
Delicious  as  trickles 
Of  wine  poured  at  mass  time. 
And  choose  One  indulgent 
To  redness  and  sweetness  : 
Or  if,  with  experience  of  man  and  of  spider, 
June  use  my  June-lightning,  the  strong  insect-ridder, 
And  stop  the  fresh  film-work,  —  why,  June  will  con- 
sider. 

Robert  Browning. 


114  JUNE  DAYS. 

JUNE  DAYS. 

Wane  on,  delicious  daj's  of  shower  and  shine, 
Cool,  cloudy  morns  and  noontides  white  and  warm, 

And  eyes  that  melt  in  azure  hyaline. 

Wane  to  midsummer's  long,  lethean  calm. 

For  all  the  woods  are  shrill  wdth  stress  of  song, 
Where  soft  wings  flutter  down  to  new-built  nests, 

And  turbulent  sweet  sounds  are  heard  day-long, 
As  of  innumerable  marriage  feasts. 

The  flame  of  flowers  is  bright  along  the  plain, 
The  hills  are  dim  beneath  pale,  brooding  skies  ; 

And,  like  a  kiss  that  thrills  through  every  vein, 
The  warm  wind,  odor-laden,  stirs  and  sighs. 

Murmuring  like  music  heard  afar  by  night 

From  boats  becalmed  on  star-illumined  streams, 

Sad  as  the  memory  of  a  lost  delight. 

Sweet  as  the  voices  that  are  heard  in  dreams. 

Wane,  siren  days,  and  break  the  spell  that  wrings 
The  burdened  breast  with  undefined  regret, 

Wayward  desires,  and  vain  imaginings. 
The  nameless  longing,  and  the  idle  fret. 

Wane  on  !  ye  wake  the  love  that  tempts  and  flies  ; 

And  where  love  is,  thence  peace  departs  full  soon  ; 
But,  ah,  how  sweet  love  is,  e'en  though  it  dies 

With  thy  last  roses,  O  enchantress  June  ! 

Charles  Lotin  Hildjieth. 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY.  I  r  5 

A   SUMMER'S  DAY. 

Black  bees  on  the  clover-heads  drowsily  clinging, 
Where  tall,  feathered  grasses  and  buttercups  sway ; 

And  all  through  the  fields  a  white  sprinkle  of  daisies, 
Open-eyed  at  the  setting  of  day. 

O,  the  heaps  of  sweet  roses,  sweet  cinnamon  roses, 
In  great  crimson  thickets  that  cover  the  wall ! 

And  flocks  of  bright  butterflies  giddy  to  see  them, 
And  a  sunny  blue  sky  over  all. 

Trailing  boughs  of  the  elms  drooping  over  the 
hedges, 

Where  spiders  their  glimmering  laces  have  spun  ; 
And  breezes  that  bend  the  light  tops  of  the  willows 

And  down  through  the  meadow  grass  run. 

Silver-brown  little  birds  sitting  close  in  the  branches, 
And  yellow  wings  flashing  from  hillock  to  tree, 

And  wide-wheeling  swallows  that  dip  to  the  marshes, 
And  bobolinks  crazy  with  glee,  — 

So  crazy,  they  soar  through  the  glow  of  the  sunset 
And  warble  their  merriest  notes  as  they  fly. 

Nor  heed  how  the  moths  hover  low  in  the  hollows 
And  the  dew  gathers  soft  in  the  sky. 

Then  a  round,  beaming  moon  o'er  the  blossomed 
hill  coming, 
Making  paler  the  fields  and   the  shadows  more 
deepj 


Il6  SUMMER. 

And  througli  the  wide  meadows  a  murmurous  luim- 
ming 
Of  insects  too  happy  to  sleep. 

Enchanted  I  sit  on  the  bank  by  the  willow 
And  trill  the  last  snatch  of  a  rolliclving  tune  ; 

And  since  all  this  loveliness  cannot  be  Heaven, 
I  know  in  my  heart  it  is  June. 

Mrs.  Abba  [Goold]  Woolson. 


SUMMER. 

O  SWEET  and  strange  what  time  grey  morning  steals 
Over  the  misty  flats,  and  gently  stirs 

Bee-laden  limes  and  pendulous  abeles, 
To  brush  the  dew-bespangled  gossamers 
From  meadow  grasses,  and  beneath  black  firs 

In  limpid  streamlets  or  translucent  lakes 

To  bathe  amid  dim  heron-haunted  brakes ! 

O  sweet  and  sumptuous  at  height  of  noon 
Languid  to  lie  on  scented  summer  lawns, 

Fanned  by  faint  breezes  of  the  breathless  June ; 
To  watch  the  timorous  and  trooping  fawns, 
Dappled  like  tenderest  clouds  in  early  dawns, 

Forth  from  their  ferny  covert  glide  to  drink 

And  cool  lithe  limbs  beside  the  river's  brink  ! 

O  strange  and  sad  ere  daylight  disappears, 
To  hear  the  creaking  of  the  homeward  wain, 


THE  DANUBE  RIVER.  11/ 

Drawn  by  its  yoke  of  tardy-pacing  steers, 
'Neath  honeysuckle  hedge  and  tangled  lane  ; 
To  breathe  faint  scent  of  roses  on  the  wane 

By  cottage  doors,  and  watch  the  mellowing  sky 

Fade  into  saffron  hues  insensibly ! 

John  Addington  Symonds. 


THE  DANUBE  RIVER. 

Do  you  recall  that  night  in  June, 

Upon  the  Danube  river  ? 
We  listened  to  a  Landler  tune, 

We  watched  the  moonbeams  quiver. 
I  oft  since  then  have  watched  the  moon, 

But  never,  Love,  O  never, 
Can  I  forget  that  night  in  June, 

Upon  the  Danube  river. 

Our  boat  kept  measure  with  its  oar. 

The  music  rose  in  snatches. 
From  peasants  dancing  on  the  shore. 

With  boisterous  songs  and  catches. 
I  know  not  why  that  Landler  rang 

Through  all  my  soul,  but  never 
Can  I  forget  the  songs  they  sang 

Upon  the  Danube  river. 

Hamilton  Aide. 


Il8  THE  yUNE   CRICKET. 

THE  FIRST  CRICKET. 

'Tis  not  midsummer  quite,  and  yet  I  hear 

A  cricket  chirping  low  beside  the  sill ; 

The  merry,  warbling  birds  will  not  be  still 
And  let  me  muse  in  melancholy  here. 
They  are  so  gay  and  glad  they  do  not  fear 

The   lonely  hours  when   autumn's   breath  grows 
chill ; 

But  ah,  this  tiny  voice  has  power  to  fill 
This  sunny  time  with  sombre  broodings  drear. 
The  roses  have  not  reached  their  glory  yet, 

Nor  the  fair  lily  donned  her  best  array. 
The  fuchsias  droop  with  dewy  jewels  set, 

The  sleepy  poppies  have  not  dreamed  away 

One  summer  month,  still  I  cannot  forget 
I  heard  a  cricket's  lonesome  chirp  to-day. 

Mrs.  Rosaline  [Ewan]  Jones. 


THE  JUNE   CRICKET. 

(IN   MADISON  SQUARE.) 

Tented  in  the  short  green  grass. 
While  the  moon  shone  in  the  sky, 

A  cricket,  close  to  those  who  pass, 
Uttered  the  old  familiar  cry. 

Little  heeded  he  the  noise 
Of  the  crowded  city  street, 


THE  JUNE   CRICKET.  II9 

But  blew  his  flute  with  strident  voice 
Unmindful  of  the  tramp  of  feet. 

Hundreds  briskly  hurry  by, 

Listless  to  the  song  they  pass ; 
No  policeman  stops  his  cry, 

Or  orders  him,  "  Keep  off  the  grass ! " 

I  who  note  the  steady  tune 

That  he  with  such  relish  plays, 
Wonder  how  this  note  of  June 

Came  to  take  to  city  ways. 

Far  from  native  haunts  withdrawn, 
He  sings  the  old  song  at  my  feet : 

The  prelude  of  a  country  lawn 
Salutes  the  curious  city  street. 

Rustic  scenes  are  not  at  hand ; 

No  rippling  rivulet  wanders  near : 
Hard  it  is  to  understand 

This  voice  in  such  an  atmosphere. 

Brave  little  cricket,  pipe  away ; 

Let  your  blitheness  melt  in  song ! 
'Tis  the  cheeriest  roundelay ; 

I  shall  thank  you  for  it  long. 

Torn  from  springtime,  robbed  of  June, 

Shut  up  to  the  city  street, 
Much  I  thank  you  for  your  tune 

Uttered  from  this  strange  retreat. 

Joel  Benton. 


120  TO   CARNATIONS. 

THE    WOOD    THRUSH. 

In  that  soft  twilight  change  of  summer  eves 

From  rosy  bloom  to  darkness  cool  and  still, 
Sweet  from  some  dusky  haunt  among  the  leaves 

Thy  voice  is  heard  by  lonely  field  or  hill, 
Chanting  thy  low,  impassioned  vesper  hymn, 

Clear  as  the  silver  treble  of  a  stream 
Round  mossy  isles  in  woodland  valleys  dim. 

There  have  I  hearkened,  as  one  in  a  dream 
Lies  smiling,  while  some  dear  form  bent  above 

Taps  at  the  muffled  portals  of  the  brain 
With  gentle  touch  and  murmured  words  of  love 

Until  the  heart  stirs  v/ith  a  tender  pain  ; 
While  the  wrapt  senses  soothed  in  slumbrous  balm 
Sink  down  still  deeper  in  delicious  calm. 

Charles  Lotin  Hildreth. 


TO   CARNATIONS. 

Stay  while  ye  will,  or  go, 

And  leave  no  scent  behind  ye  : 

Yet  trust  me  I  shall  know 

The  place  where  I  may  find  ye. 

Within  my  Lucia's  cheek 

(Whose  livery  ye  wear) 
Play  ye  at  hide  and  seek, 

I'm  sure  to  find  ye  there. 

Robert  Herrick. 


RAISED  ARE    THE  DRIPFING   OARS.       121 

JUNE. 

Oh,  June,  thou  hast  too  many  memories ; 

Ghosts  walk  by  daylight  'neath  thy  steadfast  sun, 
And  people  thy  warm  darkness ;  can  I  shun 
These  faces  of  dead  joys  and  pitiless  eyes 
That  look  in  mine  till  my  pierced  spirit  cries 

"  Forbear,  —  pass   by ! "    and  makes  its  desolate 

moan 
For  pity  of  its  sorrow  spent  and  prone  ? 
Amid  these  ghosts  my  heart  lies  faint  and  dies : 
Oh,  summer  twilight,  sad  beyond  all  telling, 

Oh,  nights  made  once  for  love,  made  now  for  grief! 
Come,  winter,  with  thy  formidable  array 
Of  frost  and  storms  the  grey  cold  ocean  swelling ! 
Yet  wherefore  come  ?    Thou  canst  bring  no  relief ; 
Hast  thou  not  too  the  memories  that  dismay  ? 
Philip  Bourke  Marston. 


RAISED  ARE   THE  DRIPPING   OARS. 

Raised  are  the  dripping  oars, 

Silent  the  boat !  the  lake, 

Lovely  and  soft  as  a  dream, 

Swims  in  the  sheen  of  the  moon. 

The  mountains  stand  at  its  head 

Clear  in  the  pure  June  night. 

But  the  valleys  are  flooded  with  haze. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

The   Youth  of  Nature. 


122  IN  JUNE. 

A    JUNE  LILY. 

I  SAW  upon  the  bosom  of  a  stream 

A  full-blown  lily  tremble  in  the  sun. 

The  tide  swept  by  but  took  not  on  its  course 

The  lily  which  still  fluttered  like  a  dove 

In  all  its  beauty  in  the  selfsame  place. 

Ah,  if  the  Power  that  kept  the  lily  there 
Despite  the  tide  that  kissed  its  lips  apart 
Would  make  the  course  of  time  flow  lightly  on 
Bearing  our  idols  not  upon  its  way, 
But  passing  softly  by  with  soothing  sounds 
Letting  them  linger  at  life's  brightest  spot, 
Like  the  lone  lily  on  the  crystal  stream 
All  white,  all  young,  all  pure,  all  beautiful. 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick. 


IN  JUNE. 

In  June  'tis  good  to  lie  beneath  a  tree 
While  the  blithe  season  comforts  every  sense, 
Steeps  all  the  brain  in  rest,  and  heals  the  heart, 
Brimming  it  o'er  with  sweetness  unawares, 
Fragrant  and  silent  as  that  rosy  snow 
Wherewith  the  pitying  apple  tree  fills  up 
And  tenderly  lines  some  last  year's  robin's  nest. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 
Under  the   Willows. 


LONG  LISTLESS  SUMMER  HOURS.  1 23 

COME    TO  ME  IN  CHERRY  TIME. 

Come  to  me  in  cherry  time, 

And,  as  twilight  closes. 
We  will  have  a  merry  time, 

Here  among  the  roses  ! 
When  the  breezes  crisp  the  tide, 

And  the  lindens  quiver, 
In  our  bark  we'll  safely  glide 

Down  the  rocky  river ! 

When  the  stars,  with  quiet  ray, 

All  the  hilltops  brighten. 
Cherry-ripe  we'll  sing  and  play 

Where  the  cherries  ripen  ! 
Then  come  to  me  in  cherry  time, 

And,  as  twilight  closes, 
We  will  have  a  merry  time 

Here  among  the  roses ! 

George  Perkins  Morris. 


LONG  LISTLESS  SUMMER  HOURS. 

Long  listless  summer  hours  when  the  noon 

Being  enamored  of  a  damask  rose 
Forgets  to  journey  westward,  till  the  moon, 

The  pale  usurper  of  its  tribute, grows 
From  a  thin  sickle  to  a  silver  shield 
And  chides  its  loitering  car. 

Oscar  Wilde. 
The  Garden  of  Eros. 


124  A    YELLOIV  PANSY. 

MOONRISE  IN  JUNE. 

A  MOUNTAIN  pool  withiii  a  wood  far  hid, 
(No  faintest  movement  on  its  ebon  glass 
Save  where  a  streamlet  o'er  the  moss  cuirass 

Of  a  bluff  boulder,  querulously  chid 

The  arching  ferns  and  maidenhair  that  bid 

With  clinging  arms,  this  wayward  child  not  pass,) 

Lay  coldly  mirroring  the  darkling  mass 

Of  pines  that  rose  in  leafy  pyramid. 

There  came  the  shrilling  of  the  katydid 

From  where  the  stillness  slept  upon  the  grass, 
A  chilling  mist  its  veil  outspread,  and  soon 

To  magic  beauty  turning  all  upslid 

(Where  none  might  see  the  wonderous  sight,  alas  !) 
The  full,  pale  glory  of  the  silvern  moon  ! 

Charles  Miner  Thompson. 


A    YELLOW  PANSY. 

To  the  wall  of  the  old  green  garden 
A  butterfly  quivering  came  ; 

His  wings  on  the  sombre  lichens 
Played  like  a  yellow  flame. 

He  looked  at  the  grey  geraniums, 
And  the  sleepy  four-o'clocks  ; 

He  looked  at  the  low  lanes  bordered 
With  the  glossy-growing  box. 


IN  JOYOUS  JUNE.  125 

He  longed  for  the  peace  and  the  silence, 
And  the  shadows  that  lengthened  there, 

And  his  wee  wild  heart  was  weary 
Of  skimming  the  endless  air. 

And  now  in  the  old  green  garden,  — 

I  know  not  how  it  came,  — 
A  single  pansy  is  blooming. 

Bright  as  a  yellow  flame. 

And  whenever  a  gay  gust  passes. 

It  quivers  as  if  with  pain, 
For  the  butterfly-soul  that  is  in  it 

Longs  for  the  winds  again ! 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 


IN  JOYOUS  JUNE. 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon, 

Towards  the  end  of  the  sunny  month  of  June, 

When  the  north  wind  congregates  in  crowds 

The  floating  mountains  of  the  silver  clouds 

From  the  horizon,  and  the  stainless  sky 

Opens  beyond  them  like  eternity. 

All  things  rejoiced  beneath  the  sun,  —  the  weeds, 

The  river,  and  the  cornfields,  and  the  reeds. 

The  willow  leaves  that  glanced  in  the  light  breeze. 

And  the  firm  foliage  of  the  larger  trees. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
Slimmer  and  Winter. 


1 26  NOONTIDE. 


NOONTIDE. 


Lo  !  here  amid  the  summer  flowers, 
Half-dozing  through  the  noonday  hours 

In  shadows  cool  and  dim, 
I  rest  at  ease  from  care  and  cark, 
With  pinks  and  violets  to  mark 

My  small  horizon's  rim. 

A  truant  cricket  gone  astray 
Indulges  in  a  roundelay, 

A  lissome-footed  guest ; 
And  then  ere  long  I  entertain 
Gay  butterflies,  a  dazzling  train 

In  gold  and  purple  drest. 

At  Avill  upon  the  fountain  spray 
I  watch  the  frolic  colors  play 

In  soft,  translucent  bars  ; 
Or  gazing  in  the  leafy  skies 
I  dream  I  see  a  dryad's  eyes 

Laugh  mid  the  jasmine  stars. 

While  from  the  garden's  wealth  of  blooms 
A  myriad  spicy-winged  perfumes 

In  sweet  procession  pass  ; 
And  far  and  faint  the  wild  bees'  hum, 
Echoing  like  an  elfin  drum. 

Beats  time  amid  the  grass. 

Samuel  Minturn  Teck. 


A  HUMMING-BIRD.  12/ 

ROSE  SECRETS. 

I  TELL  my  secrets  to  the  rose 

When  but  a  mossy  bud, 
Before  the  spreading  leaves  disclose 

Their  veins  of  scarlet  blood. 

Fast  in  her  bosom  they  shall  lie 

Secure  and  hidden  deep, 
And  dewdrops  from  the  gentle  sky 

Shall  kiss  her  cheeks,  asleep. 

The  balmy  winds  in  vain  shall  woo 

And  thrill  the  slender  stem  ; 
She  holds  my  secrets  fast  and  true, 

She  will  not  whisper  them. 

But  when,  at  last,  her  lips  shall  touch 

Your  own,  beloved  mine. 
Then  shall  you  learn  my  love,  —  how  much  ! 

In  breaths  of  fragrance  fine. 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 


A   HUMMING-BIRD. 

When  the  mild  gold  stars  flower  out, 
As  the  summer  gloaming  goes, 

A  dim  shape  quivers  about 

Some  sweet  rich  heart  of  a  rose. 


128  TO  JUNE. 

If  you  watch  its  fluttering  poise, 
From  palpitant  wings  will  steal 

A  hum  like  the  eerie  noise 
Of  an  elfin  spinning-wheel ! 

And  then  from  the  shape's  vague  sheen, 
Quick  lustres  of  blue  will  float, 

That  melt  in  luminous  green 

Round  a  glimmer  of  ruby  throat ! 

But  fleetly  across  the  gloom 
This  tremulous  shape  will  dart, 

While  searching  for  some  fresh  bloom, 
To  quiver  about  its  heart. 

Then  you,  by  thoughts  of  it  stirred, 
Will  dreamily  question  them  : 

"  Is  it  a  gem,  half  bird. 
Or  is  it  a  bird,  half  gem  ?  " 


Edgar  Fawcett. 


TO  JUNE. 

March  is  a  trumpet  flower, 

And  April  a  crocus  wild  ; 
May  is  a  harebell  slender 

With  the  clear  blue  eyes  of  a  child ; 
July  is  the  cup  of  a  tulip 

Where  gold  and  crimson  meet. 


SUMMER    TWILIGHTS.  1 29 

And  August  a  tiger  lily, 

Tawny  with  passion  and  heat ; 
But  thou  art  the  rose  of  the  world, 
Precious  and  glowing  and  sweet ! 

Fair  is  the  flush  of  the  dawning 

Over  the  face  of  the  sky ; 
Sweet  is  the  tangle  of  music 

From  wild  birds  fluttering  by ; 
Brilliant  the  glow  of  the  sunset. 

And  graceful  the  bound  of  the  deer ; 
Glad  is  the  laugh  of  the  children 
Ringing  like  joy-bells  clear  ; 

But  what  can  compare  with  thy  beauty, 
O  red,  red  rose  of  the  year ! 

Mrs.  Mary  Elizabeth  [McGkath]  Blake. 


SUMMER   TWILIGHTS. 

.  .  .  He  loved  the  ever-deepening  brown 
Of  summer  twilights  on  the  enchanted  hills; 
Where  he  might  listen  to  the  starts  and  thrills 
Of  birds  that  sang  and  rustled  in  the  trees, 
Or  watch  the  footsteps  of  the  wandering  breeze 
And  the  birds'  shadows  as  they  fluttered  by 
Or  slowly  wheeled  across  the  unclouded  sky. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 
The  Foetus  Fame. 


no  TO  AN  ORIOLE. 


PUCK. 


When  the  last  gold  threads  are  gliding 

From  the  loom  of  weary  day, 
Many  a  bliss  for  me  is  biding 

By  the  way. 
Where  the  mellow,  brown  bee  dozes 

In  the  twilight  naught  I  miss. 
Greeting  pansies,  pinks  and  roses 
With  a  kiss. 

Through  a  shadowland  of  flowers 

In  the  musky  gloom  I  go, 
While  the  petals  fall  in  showers 

Soft  and  low. 
Till  Aurora's  silver  finger 

Beckons  on  the  laggard  light, 
With  my  frolic  elves  I  linger. 
Then  —  good  night. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 


TO  AN  ORIOLE. 

How  falls  it,  oriole,  thou  hast  come  to  fly 

In  tropic  splendor  through  our  Northern  sky  ? 

At  some  glad  moment  was  it  Nature's  choice 
To  dower  a  scrap  of  sunset  with  a  voice  ? 


BALLAD.  131 

Or  did  some  orange  tulip,  flaked  with  black, 
In  some  forgotten  garden,  ages  back. 

Yearning  towards  Heaven  until  its  wish  was  heard. 
Desire  unspeakably  to  be  a  bird  ? 

Edgar  Fawcett. 


BALLAD. 

In  the  summer  even 

While  yet  the  dew  was  hoar, 
I  went  plucking  purple  pansies. 

Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore. 
The  fishing  lights  their  dances 

Were  keeping  out  at  sea, 

And  come,  I  sung,  my  true  love ! 

Come  hasten  home  to  me  ! 

But  the  sea  it  fell  a-moaning, 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon  ; 
And  the  young  moon  dropped  from  heaven, 

And  the  lights  hid  one  by  one. 
All  silently  their  glances 

Slipped  down  the  cruel  sea, 
And  wait !  cried  the  night  and  wind  and  storm. 

Wait,  till  I  come  to  thee  ! 

Mrs.  Harriet  Elizabeth  [Prescott]  Spofford. 


132  THE  DEATH  OF  JUNE. 

JUNE  DREW  UNTO  ITS  END. 

June  drew  unto  its  end,  the  hot  bright  days 
Now  gat  from  men  as  much  of  blame  as  praise, 
As  rainless  still  they  passed,  without  a  cloud, 
And  growing  grey  at  last,  the  barley  bowed 
Eefore  the  southeast  wind. 

William  Morris. 
The  Earthly  Paradise. 


THE  DEATH  OF  JUNE. 

June  falls  asleep  upon  her  bier  of  flowers  : 
In  vain  are  dewdrops  sprinkled  over  her ; 
In  vain  would  fond  winds  fan  her  back  to  life. 
Her  hours  are  numbered  on  the  floral  dial ; 
Astrasa's  scales  have  weighed  her  minutes  out, 
Poised  on  the  zodiac ;  and  the  Northern  Crown 
Hangs  sparkling  in  the  zenith  just  at  eve, 
To  show  a  queen  is  passing.     See  where  stands, 
Pausing  on  tiptoe,  with  full,  flushing  lips. 
And  outstretched  arms,  her  sister,  bright  July, 
Eager  to  kiss  the  blossoms,  tliat  will  fade 
If  her  hot  breath  but  touch  them. 

June  is  dead. 
Dead,  without  dread  or  pain,  her  gayest  wreaths 
Twined  with  her  own  hands  for  her  funeral. 
At  first  she  smiled  upon  us,  garlanded 
With  columbines  and  azure  lupine  buds ; 


THE  DEATH  OF  JUNE.  1 33 

But  now  we  find  a  few  pale  roses,  dropped 
In  her  last  dreamy  loitering  through  the  fields, 
Or  see  her  wild  geraniums  by  the  brook, 
Her  laurels  and  azaleas  in  the  woods. 
These  gather  we  as  keepsakes  of  dear  June, 
Though  not  unmindful  of  the  humbler  flowers 
That  thought  it  joy  to  bloom  around  her  feet ; 
The  buttercups  and  blue-eyed  grass  that  peeped 
Under  the  wayside  bars  at  travelers  ; 
Prunella  lingering  in  the  wagon's  track ; 
The  evening  primrose,  glimmering  like  a  star 
When  the  sun  set ;  and  the  prim  mullein  too. 
Folded  in  flannels  from  the  eastern  winds. 
Damp  dews,  and  reckless  songs  of  bobolinks. 
A  warmer  reign  begins,  and  they  must  fade 
Beneath  its  splendor ;  even  these  richer  blooms,  — 
Orchis  and  arethusa  quaintly  robed, 
And  harebells  nodding  to  blue  skies  and  streams. 
And  white  pond-lilies,  scarcely  opening 
In  time  to  catch  the  farewell  look  of  June. 


Lucy  Larcom. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


A  beauty  like  young  womanhood's    . 

Across  the  crimson  clover  seas 

A  bird  in  the  boughs  sang  "June  "    . 

A  day  in  June ;  a  scholar  at  his  books  . 

A  flowery  veil  o'er  the  glen  unfurls   . 

A  gentle  breeze  blows  softly  from  the  west  . 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go       . 

A  June  day,  cool  from  recent  rain 

All  the  storm  has  rolled  away    . 

All  through  the  sultry  hours  of  June     . 

A  mountain  pool  within  a  wood  far  hid     . 

And  now  the  old  world  holds  high  holiday  . 

An  English  wife,  whose  passage  o'er  the  line 

An  odorous  breath  of  drowsy  noon 

As  I  lay  yonder  in  tall  grass 


Birds  in  the  treetops  were  singing 

Black  bees  on  the  clover-heads  drowsily  clinging 

Buzzing  little  busybody 


Came  jolly  June,  arrayed  .... 
Calm  the  June  evening  was,  no  sign  of  strife 
Come  down  amongst  us  and  men  know  it  not 
Come  to  me  in  cherry  time    .... 


Dancing  along  the  lands    . 
Dead  sienna  and  rusty  gold 


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47 
io6 

31 

66 
II 
54 
67 
22 
26 
104 
124 
76 

65 
29 

50 

71 

"5 
80 

IS 

56 

33 

123 

6 
16 


136 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Delicate  vases  of  fairest  hue     .... 
Do  you  recall  that  night  in  June    .... 
Down  in  the  heart  of  the  June,  my  love   . 

Earth's  awake  'neath  the  laughing  skies 

Fair  month  of  roses !     Who  would  sing  her  praise 
Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree        .... 
From  brightening  fields  of  ether  fair  disclosed 


Has  queen-like  June  cast  jewels  on  the  earth 

Haytime's  here 

Hear  the  skylark  in  the  cloud 
He  loved  the  ever-deepening  brown  . 
Hither  and  thither  the  swift  birds  fly    . 
How  falls  it,  oriole,  thou  hast  come  to  fly 


I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky        .        .        , 

In  June  'tis  good  to  lie  beneath  a  tree 

In  that  soft  t^vilight  change  of  summer  eves 

In  the  dead  barrenness  of  wintertime 

In  the  month  of  June,  when  the  world  is  green 

In  the  summer  even 

I  saw  upon  the  bosom  of  a  stream 

Is  this  the  June,  —  the  jewel  of  the  year  . 

I  tell  my  secrets  to  the  rose  . 

It  is  a  summer  gloaming,  balmy-sweet 

It  is  full  summer  now,  the  heart  of  June 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon 

June  drew  unto  its  end,  the  hot  bright  days 

June  falls  asleep  upon  her  bier  of  flowers 

June  is  full  of  invitations  sweet     . 

June  is  the  pearl  of  our  New  England  year 

June's  bridesman,  poet  o'  the  year 

June  was  not  over 


132 

.     132 

Title-page 

I 

37 
112 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


137 


June,  whose  beauties  vie 


Laden  with  gifts  of  your  giving 

Lady  I  in  this  night  of  June  .... 

Let  us  quit  the  leafy  arbor 

Lily !  uplifting  pearly-petaled  cups 

Listen  how  the  whippoorwill     .        .        . 

Lo,  all  about  the  lofty  blue  are  blown  . 

Lo !  here  amid  the  summer  flowers  . 

Long  listless  summer  hours  when  the  noon . 


March  is  a  trumpet  flower .... 

May's  a  word  'tis  sweet  to  hear     . 

Meadows  lost  in  clouds  of  mist 

Mine  is  the  Month  of  Roses ;  yes  and  mine 

Month  of  my  heart !  with  what  a  growth  of  green 

My  heart  within  me  is  singing  a  tune    . 


Never  was  my  life's  neglected  garden 
No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer 
Now  is  the  high  tide  of  the  year 
Now  summer  finds  her  perfect  prime 


O  fresh,  how  fresh  and  fair 

O  friend,  your  face  I  cannot  see     . 

Oh,  hark  to  the  brown  thrush  I  hear  how  he  sings 

Oh,  June,  thou  hast  too  many  memories 

O  June,  O  June,  that  we  desired  so  . 

Once  more  I  walk  mid  summer  days,  as  one 

O  royal  Rose !  the  Roman  dressed    . 

On  the  wild  rose  tree 

Ope,  folded  rose 

O  Spirit  of  the  Spring,  delay,  delay 

O  sweet  and  strange  what  time  grey  morning  steals 

Passing  sweet  with  songs  and  roses 


138 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Queen-moon  of  this  enchanted  summer  night 

Rain,  rain,  sweet  warm  rain  .... 
Raised  are  the  dripping  oars 

She  hath  looked  in  the  Sun's,  her  Prince's  eyes 

She  needs  no  teaching ;  no  defect  is  hers 

"  She  was  won  in  an  idle  day  " 

So  beautiful  the  day  had  been   . 

Soft  is  the  rosy  flush  around  me    . 

So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing 

Stay  while  ye  will,  or  go     . 

Summer's  rain  and  winter's  snow . 

Sunshine  over  the  meadows  wide 

Sylvan  splendor !  meadows'  pride 

Ten  o'clock :  the  broken  moon  .        .        . 

Tented  in  the  short  green  grass     . 

The  air  is  drowsing  in  a  swoon 

The  black  clouds  roll  across  the  sun 

The  bloom  is  falling  from  the  may    . 

The  daisies  are  nodding  o'er  bending  grass 

The  earliest  breath  of  June 

The  earth,  late  choked  with  showers     . 

The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still 

The  grafter's  task  is  ended    . 

The  hills  are  far  and  a  purple  haze   . 

The  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow    . 

The  June  wind  blows,  and  through  the  grass 

The  long  day  wanes,  the  broad  fields  fade ;  the  night 

The  month  is  June,  but  all  the  sky  is  grey 

Then  came  the  jolly  Summer,  being  dight     . 

Then  flash  the  wings  returning  summer  calls 

The  oak's  slow-opening  leaf,  of  deepening  hue 

There  is  a  belt  of  pinks,  christened  quite  wrong 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


139 


The  season  was  the  season  of  sweet  June     . 

The  summertime  has  come  again 

The  sun  is  set,  and  in  his  latest  beams 

The  sun  shot  forth  his  fiery  rays 

The  toad  has  the  road,  the  cricket  sings 

The  very  spirit  of  summer  breathes  to-day 

The  whilom  hills  of  grey,  whose  tender  shades    . 

"  Thou  dear,  fair  Summer,  where  art  thou  1 "  I  said 

'Tis  June,  and  all  the  lowland  swamps . 

'Tis  not  midsummer  quite,  and  yet  I  hear 

'Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night  . 

To  the  wall  of  the  old  green  garden 

'Twas  in  June's  bright  and  glowing  prime     . 

Under  the  trees  in  the  noontime  I  lie 

Upon  a  showery  night  and  still      .... 


Wane  on,  delicious  days  of  shower  and  shine 

Wash  sheep  (for  the  better)  where  water  doth  run 

Were  I  a  poet  I  should  sing 

What  garden  but  glows  . 

When  clover  blooms  in  the  meadows 

When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose 

When  the  last  gold  threads  are  gliding 

When  the  mild  gold  stars  flower  out 

When  the  pearly  dewdrop  dowers 

While  grey  was  the  summer  evening     , 

Wild  rustic  cousins  of  the  dainty  rose 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush 

Yes  1  they  are  here  again,  the  long,  long  days 


Page 
81 
16 

104 

52 
81 
27 
82 

85 
118 
108 
124 

97 

83 

49 

114 


14 
94 
45 
130 
127 
84 
89 

24 
103 

93 


INDEX   OF  SUBJECTS. 


Page 

Across  the  Crimson  Clover  Seas 106 

A  Four  O'clock 67 

A  June  Day 79,  8 r,  89 

A  June  Lily 122 

A  June  Night 91 

Amid  the  Limes 104 

Another  Way  of  Love 112 

A  Picture 66 

A  Quest 82 

A  Sudden  Shower 105 

A  Summer  Idyl 11 1 

A  Summer's  Day 115 

A  Yellow  Pansy 124 

Ballad 131 

Ballade  of  a  Windy  Day,  A 74 

Ballade  of  Summer,  A 86 

Birds  in  Early  June,  The 3 

Boating 22 

Bumble-Bee 50 

Clover 24 

Come  to  me  in  Cherry  Time 123 

Death  of  June,  The 132 

Delay 4 

Departure  of  the  Cuckoo,  The 5 


142  INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 

Pack 
Dream  of  the  South  Winds  in  June,  A  .  .  .  -41 
Drought  in  June,  The 104 

Earliest  Breath  of  June,  The     .        .        .        .        .        .26 

Evening  Primroses 89 

Fireflies 85 

Full  Summer  Now 78 

Haytime 13 

Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  Lose 61 

Here 11 

Humming-Bird,  A 127 

In  June 14,  39,  73,  '^i,  97,  122 

In  a  June  Garden 97 

In  Joyous  June 125 

In  the  Clover 57 

In  the  Summertime 36 

June       I,  3,  15,  20,  29,  32,  38,  43,  51,  65,  68,  75,  81,  88,  99,  108, 
121 

June,  A  Day  in 33 

June,  A  Night  in 56,  98 

June  Days 27,  114 

June  Drew  unto  its  End 132 

June  Evening,  A 54 

June  Garden  Carol,  A 84 

June  Harmony,  A 31 

June  Longings 48 

June  Love  Song 77 

June's  Husbandry 88 

Joy  Month 8 

Long,  Listless  Summer  Hours 123 

Love  in  Summertime 35 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS.  1 43 

Pagb 

Morning  Glories 44 

Morning  Glory 64 

Moonrise  in  June 124 

Noontide 126 

Now  is  the  High  Tide  of  the  Year       ....  43 

Oh  the  Merry  Lay  of  June 87 

O  June,  Sweet  June loi 

On  the  Bridge 26 

On  the  Edge  of  the  Marsh 16 

On  the  Wild  Rose  Tree 103 

Ope,  Folded  Rose 6 

Oriole,  To  an 130 

Out  of  Doors  in  June Title-page 

Puck 130 

Raised  are  the  Dripping  Oars 121 

Rose  Secrets 127 

Rose  Song 33 

She  was  Won  in  an  Idle  Day 102 

Signs  of  Rain 17 

Solstice 69 

Song  of  the  Gloaming 52 

Song  of  Summer,  A 34 

Summer 2,6,16,30,46,116 

Summer  Comes 4 

Summer  Day  by  the  Sea,  A  .....        .  63 

Summer  Moon,  A 53 

Summer  Night  on  the  Hudson 108 

Summer  Rain 21 

Summer's  Return 65 

Summer  Solstice 69 

Summer  Twilights 129 


144  INDEX    OF   SUBJECTS. 

Pagb 

Summer  Twilight,  A 56 

Summer's  Rain  and  Winter's  Snow      ....  78 

Sweet  June  Night,  The 55 

Swinging 71 

The  Bobolink 37 

The  Bumble-Bee 80 

The  Dance  of  Death 76 

The  Dandelions 49 

The  Danube  River 117 

The  Dying  Sycamores 47 

The  Evening  Comes 107 

The  First  Cricket 118 

The  Grafter's  Task  is  Ended 15 

The  Heart  of  June 109 

The  June  Cricket 118 

The  Long  Days 93 

The  Longest  Day 70 

The  Thrush's  Nest 103 

The  Wood  Thrush     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .120 

To  a  June  Rose 95 

To  Blossoms 19 

To  Carnations 120 

To  June 9,  128 

Tulip  Tree  in  Blossom,  The 12 

Villanelle 45 

Vine  Life 58 

What  Garden  but  Glows 14 

What  is  so  Rare 96 

When  Clover  Blooms 94 

Whippoorwill 100 

Wooing 60 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


RtCJ 


JAN  24  1991 


Form  L9-75m-7, '61  (0143784)444 


I 


L  009  485  469  2 


PN 

6iic 

S5A3 


^ 


